


Feral Cats

by KassieProphet



Series: Mary Goore Stuff [1]
Category: Bandom, Ghost (Sweden Band), Repugnant (Band)
Genre: AU, Accidental Drug Use, Aftercare, Ambiguous Love, Ambiguous Mental Health Issues, BDSM, Blow Jobs, Breathplay, Choking, Come Marking, Consensual Somnophilia, Dirty Talk, Domme, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Eventual Fluff, F/M, Frottage, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Mary Goore - Freeform, Mary's a subby boy, Mentions of Cancer, Mentions of past emotional manipulation, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Original Female Character(s) - Freeform, Play Fighting, Pseudonecrophilia, Public Play, Public Sex, Recreational Drug Use, Semi-Public Sex, Squirting, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex, Vibrators, brief homophobic language, consensual degradation, dumbasses to lovers, everyone's gross, hard spanking, lots of artistic license taken in regards to the band, not really repugnant accurate, not the healthiest of relationships, this fic is really a love letter to all those gritty girls out there who can get it
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-07
Updated: 2021-03-12
Packaged: 2021-03-12 11:13:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 24
Words: 113,606
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22156312
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KassieProphet/pseuds/KassieProphet
Summary: You accept Mary Goore into your life, and now he won't leave. This is what happens when you feed strays.Or: A story in which one (1) Punkass Noodle Boy has it bad for the down-and-out Gritty Girl
Relationships: Mary Goore/Original Female Character
Series: Mary Goore Stuff [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1596607
Comments: 700
Kudos: 112





	1. Domming Mary Goore

**Author's Note:**

> I originally intended this to be a porny one-shot, but it...got out of hand because I ended up loving their dynamic so much. So now it will be a full-length fic.
> 
> I do not endorse this as healthy BDSM or relationship goals. Just two messy people trying to figure their shit out and making mistakes along the way.
> 
> Art by [copias-cape](https://copias-cape.tumblr.com/)
> 
> #  **Part 1**

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Suey gets tired of Mary's shit and decides to show him who's in charge. But not all is as it seems...

It’s one of those nights where Mary comes to you already in a snit over something. You two have developed something that’s not quite a booty call, not quite FWB. Usually he just shows up, banging into your apartment (_“Fuck, don’t you lock your door? There’s all kinds of weirdos out there!”_ **“I have a hammer.”**) ready to fuck you into next year.

And sure he’s kinda . . . ripe . . . and dirty, but you’re not winning any prizes either with your hair you haven’t bothered to wash in a week, wearing a hoodie covered in pasta sauce stains. (_“Are you depressed or some shit?”_ **“I live alone, who’s gonna notice?”** _“_I_ fucking noticed.”_ **“I don’t perform for—”** _“Yeah, yeah . . . I don’t actually give a shit. I’m just here for the pussy.”_) Most of the time you guys don’t even make it into your bedroom, and you usually never make it out of all your clothes. You drew the line at your kitchen counter after that time one of you hit the faucet on and you got a face full of water. He never stays after, always gone after you get out of your shower.

But sometimes you come home to find him camped out on your couch eating the last of your sour cream and onion chips watching _ The Golden Girls _ on your TV. He just grunts at you—like it’s _ totally normal _ he’s gotten into your (yes, locked) apartment and is watching 90′s syndication. You make yourself a dinner of rice and beans, offering some to him even though he just ate half a bag of _ your _ chips. You don’t stop yourself from dozing off on the couch after—you’re never concerned about being rude to _ him _—and when you wake up, he’s always gone. Other times, he’ll just be on your couch when you shuffle into the living room in the morning—his stage paint gone—eating your cereal. You’d bitch at him, but he always does the dishes.

He’s always complaining about something—always off on a tangent about sheeple or how the work week is a capitalist construction or escalator etiquette or his slumlord—and you just let him fuck it out, loving the way he pounds fast and insistently into your body. You’re not really a “make love” kinda girl.

Tonight, though, he’s crashed into your place hard enough that one of your frames falls to the floor, glass shattering. Mary just walks through it, glass crunching and breaking further under his boots. You cry out in dismay—at the destruction of something you care about and at the fact that he’s going to track _broken_ _glass_ throughout your entire place.

He’s still yammering on about his “idiot bandmates”, paying no heed to your distress, and it enrages you. Goddamn Mary flouncing into your goddamn home like he owns the place and just . . . using you for your shit. Like the chips and the dinner and the cable are _ owed _ to him.

You raise yourself up onto your knees so you can face him over the back of your couch,

“_ Jesus fucking Christ _ on a cracker, Mary. Fucking _ stop _.”

He turns to you, halfway through another pace across your living area, and tilts his head at you.

“Fucking what? What’s got your panties in a twist?”

You gesture emphatically at the floor.

“You broke my goddamned picture frame and now there’s glass everywhere.”

He shrugs. “I never pegged you as a materialist. And if you’re that worried about your prissy little feet, put some fucking shoes on.”

You see him gearing up to move again, so you straighten up and use your Teacher Voice.

“Don’t you fucking _ dare _ move another inch, you fucker. This is _ my _ home, I’m not your goddamned mother, and your dick isn’t that good [ _ it is _] that I’m going to just fucking let you trash my place because you think it’s antiestablishment, or whatever the hell your pretentious ass comes up with.”

Mary’s just staring at you wide-eyed, so you take a breath before he has a chance to continue being a dick.

“Now. Go to the kitchen. Get the broom and dustpan. And sweep up that shit. And if my _ prissy fucking feet _ step on a shard you didn’t get, I’m going to pull it out of my foot, save it, and make you eat it next time you come over looking to raid my kitchen. So make sure to clean the treads of your boots too, you little shit. Are. We. Clear?”

Mary mumbles something to the floor.

“I SAID ‘ARE WE CLEAR,’ MOTHERFUCKER?”

His eyes snap up to yours. “Yes . . . yes, ma’m.”

_ Hmm. That’s interesting. _

You watch him, arms crossed, as he walks on tiptoe the 3 steps it takes to get to your tiny kitchen. You don’t move from your perch on the couch as he retrieves the items in question—first using the brush to dust off the soles of his boots—and begins the arduous and careful process of cleaning up all the detritus.

When he’s dumped what seems to be the last panful into your garbage, he shyly asks you if you have a mop.

“To, uh . . . to get anything small I might have missed.”

“What a clever boy you are, Mary. Thank you. It’s in the hall closet.”

It’s hard to tell if that’s a blush you see—the fake blood still cakes his face—as he scampers off to get your squeegee mop. He’s just as careful with the mop as he was sweeping up the shards, and you grunt in approval once he’s finished.

He stands there awkwardly in the kitchen corner where he’s inadvertently boxed himself in.

“Um. Should I . . . ?”

“You will stand there quietly until the floor dries. _ I’m _ going to finish watching _ House Hunters _. Let me know when it’s done.”

You turn back around before he has a chance to do or say anything, and turn up the volume.

It’s been maybe 15min when you hear him clear his throat, and you turn lazily around.

“Is it dry?”

“Yes, ma’m.

You quirk an eyebrow at him.

“You’re sure, Mary?”

“Yes.”

“Great. Now go lie down on it.”

“Um . . . what—?”

“Did I fucking stutter, Goorey boy? Go lie down on the fucking floor. If it’s really as dry and glass-free as you say it is, it shouldn’t be an issue, especially for your disgusting ass. I know you’ve slept in a dive bar men’s room.”

Mary hurries to comply, and you wonder to where all his pissbaby bravado has fled. 

Whatever. Your gain.

He lies down on the floor, back stiff as a board, as if he doesn’t live a good pie-chart slice of his life sleeping or fucking on them.

“Good boy,” you purr. “Stay.”

“Fucking all right n—” he starts, but you swing over the back of the couch and put your foot on his mouth.

“Shut the fuck up. No one cares.”

He’s looking up at you in shock, but makes no attempt to throw you off. You tentatively raise your foot from his mouth and let it hover just within his eyesight.

“Now. Does my prissy foot have any glass on it? Be honest.”

Mary tentatively raises his hands, watching you for signs of displeasure, before taking your foot between them to carefully search for shards. It tickles like a motherfucker, but you keep your face blank. When he shakes his head, you offer him your other foot. When that also comes up clean, you smile down at him.

“Don’t forget who’s in fucking charge here, and don’t disrespect my space again. Do. I. Make. Myself. Clear?”

He gulps, nodding at you.

“Great!” you chirp. “Now we can finally get around to what you came here for.”

You straddle yourself over him, his face cautiously optimistic, before lowering yourself down, just shy of his crotch. He goes to lean himself up on his elbows, but you growl at him,

“I’m sorry. Did you not hear what I just said?”

“Um . . .”

“Who’s in charge?”

“Y-you?”

“And did I say you could move?”

He shakes his head, and lies back down.

“You aren’t that quick on the uptake, but I do like a boy who can take direction. Do you think you deserve a reward, Mary?”

He’s giving you a look like this is a trap, which—well, it _ is _ —before he stutters out a _ No _ like it’s a question.

“Hmm,” you say as you run your hands up the outside of his greasy, ripped jeans. “I’ll admit your performance here tonight has been lacking, but I love a man who can admit his failings.”

Your hands reach his studded belt, after pointedly bypassing his prominent bulge, and you begin to unbuckle it. He’s looking down at you with hooded eyes that turn to confusion when you start to tug the belt through the loops (you don’t need to remove his belt to ride his cock!).

Finally, you yank the belt free, scrutinizing it for length—he’s pretty skinny, so you’re not certain if what you want to do is plausible—but you think it’s probably long enough.

“Sit up,” you command, and he does so with alacrity, eyes eagerly fixed on the belt in your hands. It’s no secret, to you at least, that Mary is into autoerotic asphyxiation—so he knows to tap your arm 3 times if it gets to be too much—though it’s the first time you’ll be using something on him other than your hand.

You loop the belt around his neck, feeding the one end through the buckle, and consider how much lead you have by tugging gently on the end in your hand. Mary’s eyes roll back even at this subtle constriction. You smile wickedly and jerk him toward you. He puts up no resistance.

He’s still wearing lipstick, and you smudge it across his plump bottom lip and onto his cheek before kissing him on the mouth. He tastes like skunked beer, which should be disgusting, but now just tastes like “Mary.” Your hand winds up into his hair, still greasy with product and stiff with the (hopefully) fake blood he uses.

You’ll wipe it off on the back of his shirt later.

Lead still curled in your hand, you grind down on Mary’s erection, and you hear him wheeze. So you do it again and are rewarded with a rumble in his chest. You make out with him like that for a bit, belt tight around his neck, tongue in his mouth, rubbing yourself on his cock through his jeans.

When you get tired of just grinding on Mary, you pull away and grab one of his hands to put the end of his belt in. He’s red and perspiring, but still attentive.

“You’re in charge of this for the time being. _ Don’t _ let it go slack, or you lose privileges.” 

He makes a tight fist around the end you’ve given him, careful not to let it loosen. You curl over him, intent on shucking off his jeans without ripping them further—you doubt he’d care, but after that long speech you gave, you’re not going to play the hypocrite. You don’t actually think the two of you have ever gotten his pants all the way off before—he’s usually into fucking you through the slit in his jeans (_ “To remind me of you later.” _—he’s honest to god got one pair with fading brown stains from when you let him fuck you on the rag), but when when you manage to push them down, they don’t seem to ever make it past his surprisingly ample thighs. This time you manage to pull them down inside out over his knees—enough to give you access to what you want, but not enough to give him a range of movement. 

And his boots are in the way, anyhow. 

You yank off your rank hoodie—really it should go straight into your laundry basket—and realize belatedly that you’re wearing one of his band tees: the one he inexplicably left in the cushions of your couch (_ did he just go home bare under his leather jacket?? _ ) that’s got a hole so big in one armpit the sleeve is merely decorative, whose one side had been ripped and stitched up like Frankenstein’s monster, and on which there are discolored spots you assume are from improper bleach care. You _ had _ washed it and meant to give it back to him . . . but then you ran out of clean shirts again, and you figured it wouldn’t matter if you took it for another round of use. And, ok—truth be told—after wearing it for awhile, you just decided it was asshole tax.

You can see in his eyes that he's considering whether or not to disobey you and break his silence to say . . . _ what _? (you cannot read his expression)—but you cut him off before he ruins this. You don’t actually want to punish him.

“Finders keepers, Goorey boy. You shouldn’t be so careless with your stuff.” As usual, you’re free boobing it, and you cup a breast in each hand to waggle at him. “Besides, my tits look better in it than yours, Mr. AAA.”

You stand up so you can wriggle out of your pajama bottoms and red lace panties. You can see he’s surprised you’re not going commando—you usually are when you’re home—but you put them on earlier when you went for a beer run. 

You’re a classy broad.

“This is how it’s going to go: I’m going to get myself off, and if you’re a good boy who stays still and quiet, I’ll let you cum. If you piss me off, you can blue ball it all the way back to whatever hole you crawl out off in the morning. Capisce?”

He nods at you, wide-eyed.

“Great!”

Whatever he’s expecting, it’s not for you to lower yourself onto one of his thighs, straddling it, labia spread open.

“Fuck, Mary. You’ve got such nice thighs. How can you be so skinny and still have such shapely motherfuckers?”

You begin to rock yourself on him. Once you feel you’ve got a good arousal buzz going, you lean back to swipe your hand through your cunt. You get it nice and messy so that when you wrap it around Mary’s weeping cock, he jolts and twitches with the exertion of following your orders. You extract the belt lead from his clenched hand and give it a little tug, watching as he bites his bottom lip to white at the strain of not crying out.

“That’s my good boy. You’re doing so well, Mary.”

It takes a little bit or coordination on your part, but soon you’re riding Mary's thigh while jacking his cock slowly and giving him short bursts of constriction while he’s tensing and flexing in time under you. You’re sure your hand is nice, but you know that the wet slick of your cunt is so close but so far from where he wants it to be. (If the hardness of his erection is anything to go by, however, being covered in your juices isn’t a turnoff.)

He keeps looking at you pathetically—you know what he wants, but you're not going to give it to him, even if he's begging you _ please _ with his eyes. Despite himself, he's making low, whining noises.

“_ Shhh _, it’s ok, baby. Do you need me to help with keeping quiet? I know it’s hard. You can ask me for help. Do you need it?”

He nods his head, his eyes wet.

“Thank you for being honest.”

You grab your panties and shove them in his mouth.

“There now. If you keep being a good boy, I’ll give you what you need.”

He's staring at you plaintively, his knuckles white where they’re clenched in fists at his side. You stop stroking him as you get close (though you only tug tighter on the belt)—intent on reaching your own climax—and you hear an aborted whimper around the fabric in his mouth. You let it slide though—he _ does _ have to feel and watch you as you use him.

Finally you reach your peak—curling over and palms flat on his hips as you press hard down into the meat of his thigh, grunting unattractively—and when you come down you realize that he _ is _ still, but he’s trembling. His face is red from how tight you have the belt pulled around his neck, but he’s not in any distress (well, not the bad kind, anyway).

Hot and flushed, you yank <strike>his</strike> your shirt over your head, smiling wryly when you notice how sweaty and glistening you are. Mary has a thing for trying to fit your tits in his mouth, even though you’re a D cup on your skinny days. You shake them at him again, meanly teasing. After manhandling him out of his own t-shirt, you lean over him—not quite pressing your bodies together—and you run your hands up and down the planes of his body that’re within reach. You loosen the choke hold just a little, and coo to him that since he's been a good boy, you'll give him what he needs. 

But instead of easing him into your cunt—which is what he’s clearly expecting—you splay your legs on top his groin, rubbing your slick folds over him, your lips parting to either side of his cock.

You said you’d let him cum.

You never specified _ how _.

So you work him like that, rubbing yourself on his hard cock, your still sensitive clit lighting up whenever it hits his cockhead. True—it's not exactly what he was aiming for, but he'll take it, if the way he’s rocking his hips and has his eyes rolled back is any indication.

You lean over him, braced on your arms for leverage, and let your tits graze and bounce along his flat torso. You can see his arms twitching with the need to touch you, so you say, "You may touch if you want, but If you do anything more than that, I'll stop and then you won't get anything."

He nods eagerly as his hands fly to stroke your arms, then settle lightly on your hips, his range of motion much hindered by the length of belt you have pulled taut.

You're already so close again—the orgasm on his thigh was good, but not quite direct enough to fully sate you—but you don't feel any need to hold back even though he's still miles away. His grip on your hips tighten in frustration as you stutter to stop after you ride through an orgasm for the second time.

"What did I say?" you snap, and his eyes widen as his grip slackens.

You start up again, slower now that you've gotten off, and he starts to shake below you, little pathetic whimpers coming from behind the lace in his mouth. You have him just as you want him: needy; begging; desperate—and Lord help you, you're still _ so _ sensitive and you feel like you could definitely cum again soon. You speed up on his dick again, making sure the ridge of his cockhead hits your clit with every rock of your hips.

"Fuck," you say. "I think I'm going to cum again." And then you do, your body spasming at the intensity of it as you moan and accidentally drool on him.

His grip tightens for a fraction of a second before he stops himself, but his eyes look at you in naked disbelief that you're not going to make him cum yet.

_ I’ve been such a good boy _, he gaze tells you.

You smirk at him and say, "You can cum anytime you want, princess. This is for you. I have my vibrator if I want multiple orgasms."

He’s flushed and red, whether from the teasing, the frustration, or the lack of oxygen—maybe all 3—but he doesn't say a word. He's too afraid that if he breathes wrong, you'll stop and he won't get to cum at all.

A 4th orgasm is actually eked out of you before he starts sweating in earnest—the rivulets making naked trails through his corpse paint—and jerking under you; and while you do feel a bit bad, he has to learn his place. 

You know he's close when he starts tensing and convulsing in time to your rocking. He's lovely like this—panting heavily, the whites of his eyes showing, and making little mewling noises as he sucks for air through your panties. You’ve been saving this upcoming move for when he got really close, and you hope you’ve timed it right.

Slowly, you begin to wrap what little slack there’s left on the belt’s lead around your palm as you continue to thrust on his cock. Mary actually has to bow his back if he doesn’t want you outright choking him. You carefully wind it tighter until he’s practically upright, his head tipped back, the veins in his neck bulging as he swallows.

He trembles and jerks—and you’re about to let go—when suddenly his hands slam down hard onto the floor. Then you _ do _ release the belt from your hold, and Mary lets out two unrestrained screams around the fabric in his mouth as he finally orgasms, his cum shooting in quick bursts up his chest to the throb of his kicking cock.

Mary falls back heavily onto the floor, gasping and panting. You work him through it slowly until you're jostled off of him when he curls into himself and onto his side. Quickly, you remove the belt from around his neck and toss it aside, the studs making a _ swish _ noise as they slide across the wood. You maneuver yourself behind so you can wrap around him, stroking down his arms and whispering words of praise and comfort into his ear as he pants and shakes.

You run your fingers through his hair and it lulls him to sleep. For now you'll let him rest, but you know that soon you’ll have to clean him up and move him somewhere soft. Unkindly you think of the mess he’ll leave in your bed, but—yeah, ok . . . probably time to change your sheets anyway. When was the last time you did that?

Grabbing the comforter you’ve had since college off your bed, you make your way (about 5 steps) back into the living room. After divesting him of his boots and jeans, you toss the blanket over his sweat-cooled body, tucking it in around him. You pull on <strike>his</strike> your shirt and pyjama bottoms before heading into your kitchen. Your fridge reveals no surprise sports drinks or chocolate bars, but you do have some frozen oj and a Ziploc bag with old jelly beans and Hershey’s kisses from . . . last Easter?

Whatever, it’s fine.

By the time you have the fake oj ready and a few kisses unwrapped, Mary is beginning to stir. You tiptoe over to him and squat down to his level as he shakily sits up, rubbing at his eyes and smearing his makeup even worse.

“What the fuck,” he says.

“Hey, buddy,” you say as you rub his arm, “how’re you doing?”

He bats you away.

“Don’t baby me. I’m fine.”

Surly is good.

You get up so you can bring over the wonderful bounty you have prepared for him. His eyes follow you, wary, but relax when he sees what you have. He accepts the fake oj from you eagerly, and begins to gulp it down.

“Shit. _ Slowly _, Mare.”

He stops, coughing a little. “Ugh, no shit. What is this crap?”

You flush a little, embarrassed. “Fuck off, it’s all I had,” you say as you look down at your hands. He glances over at you.

“Whatever, it’s fine. Thanks, I guess.”

The two of you sit in silence as he finishes his glass.

“You want more?”

Mary wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.

“Nah. I mean, I’m good for now . . . but maybe in a minute?”

You nod and reach out the hand that’s been holding the chocolate. He takes one and immediately pops it into his mouth before accepting the remaining pieces. You lean against the back of the couch as he works his way through the kisses, taking his time to let each one melt in his mouth instead of chomping them down.

When he’s done, he holds out the glass to you again, and you’re quick to refill it. After he’s finished his second glass, he sprawls out and says,

“Thanks and all, but just so you know: oj and chocolate taste like ass together.” You frown at him and he smirks. “You know. For next time.” He winks.

“Next time,” you say slowly.

“Yeah. ‘Next time.’ That was hot. Can’t wait to do it again! But if all you’re gonna offer me is concentrated crap and moldy chocolate—”

“It’s not mold, it’s the wax coming to the surface!”

“—then I’m going to have to find a new girl to fuck.”

You make a sour lemon face at him.

“Whatever. Like your other women have it so much better. Unless you got a sugar momma I don’t know about—in which case, you’ve been holding out on me.”

Mary squints at you. “What other women?”

You roll your eyes at him. “You know,” you say as you twirl you hand, “the _ other women _ that you fuck when you’re not here.”

Mary is now looking at you like he can’t decide if this is a trick.

Slowly, as if he’s making sure he’s not messing this up, he says, “There are no other women that I fuck.”

You blink at him owlishly. He scoots a bit closer to put his hand on yours, rethinks it and pulls away, and then re-rethinks it and places it down anyway.

“I mean. I know we never said—or whatever—and like, it’s cool if you aren’t into the whole thing—I mean I could take it or leave it too, you know—but I kinda thought you were . . . my girlfriend.” 

You stare at him, but he’s very pointedly looking only at where his hand rests atop yours.

“I . . . “ you start, “but you’re never here. I thought . . . ?”

Mary looks at you like you’re the dumbest cunt he’s ever known.

“I’m _ always _ here.” He stares at you dumbly staring at him. “How have you not noticed this?” 

You stand up. “Wait—no,” you say. “You’re always only here at weird times. I never know when you’re just going to randomly show up on my couch, and you _ never _ spend the night.”

He gapes at you.

“Christ, are you _ serious _ ? I _ work _ nights. Mickey lets us play his stage for free because I bus tables, wash dishes, and bartend. Plus you know I _ do _ gotta spend actual time at my own place so my bandmates don’t get their boxers in a knot—they already think you’re Yoko. But, yeah—other than that, I’m _ here _ : washing _ your _ dishes, doing _ your _ fucking laundry, and making sure _ your _ bills don’t get buried in that landslide-prone, unopened tower of mail you got going on in that corner. You’re kinda a fucking mess, you know that?”

“Oh.”

“ ‘Oh.’ ‘_ Oh _ ,’ she says. Well, _ fine _ . _ GREAT _.” Mary throws his hands up in the air. “Well, you know what? Thanks for the great fuck, thanks for the mediocre aftercare, but I’m outta here. Have a nice fucking life.”

He stands up too quickly and teeters. You make to grab at his arm to steady him, but he yanks it away from you and ends up falling on his ass.

“FUCK,” he says, putting his head in his arms.

You stare down at him for a moment before sinking down to join him on the floor. Tentatively you put an arm around him, and he doesn’t shake it off.

“I’m an asshole,” you say.

He turns his head in his arms to look sideways at you. “You’re an asshole.”

“I suck at feelings.”

Mary snorts. “No shit. Do better.”

You nod. “I’ll do better.”

The two of you sit like that—shoulder to shoulder, his head in his arms and you lightly massaging his flaky scalp—for what seems like a long while. Finally you decide to speak up.

“Is the Girlfriend Thing still on the table?”

He looks at you sharply. “Look, I don’t need any pity—”

“Do I seem like the type to pity whatever you?” you snap back.

“Fuck if I know anything anymore.”

“Well, I’m not. I’m just. Fucking dumb.”

He looks at you, full lips pressed into a hard line. He sighs.

“You’re not dumb. You’re just . . . just pay more attention, ok?”

“Ok.” You put your hand out toward him. “Girlfriends, then?”

Before thinking about it, Mary puts his hand in yours and says, “Girlfriends. Wait—no. Fuck.”

You start giggling at him and he pushes you away.

“_ Christ _, you’re a pain in my ass. My mother’s probably laughing in her grave. Told me her revenge would be me finally meeting my match.”

You don’t really cuddle, and neither does he, but you crowd yourself into his space and drape the comforter around you both.

“Look. I know you gotta go out and work and all, but—_ as your girlfriend _—I’m concerned with you going out after, uh. Everything.”

He bumps his forehead to yours—hard, it kinda hurts—and snorts out a laugh.

“They’re closed for inventory tonight. I, uh. I might have begged out of it so I could come by and fuck you all night.”

You cluck at him. “Fuck, Mary. Don’t go getting all mushy on me. If you fall in love that’s your own fucking fault.”

“Whatever.”

You stand up, reaching a hand out to pull him up. 

“Well, if you’re going to spend the night, there’s no way I’m letting you in my bed with all that shit on your face. Wait—why is all the shit on your face? You didn’t have a gig.”

Mary accepts your proffered hand and almost tugs you back down with his momentum.

“I have a fucking reputation, you know. I had a hard day of canvassing record stores and in general being up to no good. _ You _ put on makeup and _ underwear _ just to grab beer from the corner bodega. So.”

“Fine, point made. You’re still disgusting and not getting anymore pussy until you wash that shit off.”

You lead him the two steps into your closet of a bathroom. He runs his fingers through your hair.

“It wouldn’t kill you to wash _ your _ hair either. Put it off any longer and you’re going to get those nasty-ass white-girl dreads.”

“Yeah, yeah,” you say as you fiddle with the shower dial. “Get in,” you direct before turning on the cold water on full force.

  
  



	2. Growing Pains

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Booty calls are easy. Relationships, as it turns out, are hard work.
> 
> AKA: A story in which this Goorey boy is being hard headed and Suey willfully misunderstands him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok, here it is. The next section of this Mary Goore fic I stumbling into writing. You can still read chapter 1 as a standalone. This chapter's heavy on the angst so that they can become squishy with each other later. I'm not even sorry, I loved making them mean to each other, ha ha ha.
> 
> As always, I do not endorse this as relationship goals—but slow down, roll down your window, and enjoy this temporary trainwreck.

It starts with the “Manager’s Special” chicken. It’s one of those “budget weeks”—working remotely has done wonders for your mental health, but it comes at the price of consistent work—so you’re really only at the bargain market to pick up essentials.

The chicken though … it  _ is _ discounted, and you don’t  _ have _ to get fancy bagels (the bagged ones will do), so you add the thighs to your basket. You could even bake them tonight—and wouldn’t that be a nice surprise for Mary. You did promise you’d make an effort. You even pick up a can of store-brand asparagus. 

Cooking it isn’t even hard—you’re a pro at rice now, and all you have to do to the asparagus is put a little breading on it and stick it in at the end of the chicken; the chicken just needs to be rotated every 20 minutes, and you get the added bonus of the oven heating your small space.

It finishes way before Mary graces you with his presence—his timing and constancy are spotty at best. It’s funny how he seemed to always be around when he annoyed you, and now that you’ve embraced being his girlfriend, he always seems to be MIA. 

You almost eat your portion—and a few weeks ago before Mary’s declaration, you would have without a thought—but in the end decide it’d probably be a nice gesture to eat  _ with _ him. So, both plates go into the oven to keep warm.

It’s hard to keep track of Mary’s schedule because, well, he doesn’t really have one. He works nights, but … his hours aren’t consistent and he seems to often take more hours at the last minute. And if he’s cut early, he just slips in and sleeps on your couch. How you never noticed that before is a testament to his previous criticism of you, even if you  _ had _ gotten in the habit of keeping a portion of dinner around just for him.

Apparently it’s one of those nights he started early and got cut early, because he’s sneaking into your place a little after midnight. (**“How ****_do_**** you keep getting in here?”** _“Um, with your key.”_ **“My key?”** _“Yeah. Your key. You know, the one you gave to me because you got tired of getting up to let me in??”_ **“Oh yeah …”**)

When he sees you burritoed on the couch watching  _ TNG _ reruns, however, he abandons all semblance of stealth.

“Oh hey.”

“Hey.”

He drops your keys back into an open pouch of his tattered backpack.

“Why are you still up?”

“I thought I’d wait up for you.”

He toes off his boots before coming to sprawl on the couch.

“Ok. But why?”

You sit up. “Uh … to see you?”

“Well, I’m not going to be much company. I’m exhausted.” Even as he says it, he’s reclining and pressing his hands into his eye sockets. "I don’t know why you’re not asleep if you have the option to be.” 

Snorting, you shrug off your blanket so you can get up. “Why are you here if you thought you wouldn’t see me?”

He looks at you sheepishly. “I thought you might have some food left.” When you roll your eyes at him, he says, “And to see your reenactment of a mole person in the morning. Frankly you’re adorable when your toddling around the place and banging into walls before your coffee. Comedic gold.”

You retrieve the plates of food from the oven—no longer hot, but still warm enough to be passable. You transport them to your coffee table, where you’d already left out utensils.

“I’m no longer sure you deserve this, but here,” you say as you set the plates down. And then you get to work on your chicken. Frankly, you’re starving—the last time you ate was around noon. You take the skin off and begin to pull the meat off in strips. You  _ could _ use your knife and fork, but you’re at home and it’s just Mary.

You look over at him surreptitiously and find he’s just staring at you.

“What? Is  _ this _ skeeving you out?”

He looks down at his plate and back to you, eyebrows furrowed.

“The fuck is this?”

“Um,” you say, not entirely sure how to answer the obvious. “What do you mean?”

“ _ This _ ,” he sputters gesturing at his plate.

You lick the grease off your fingers. “It’s chicken?”

“No, shit. I know it’s chicken.”

You give him a full body eyeroll. “Do you hate chicken this week or something?”

He makes a couple of aborted movements with his arms. “It’s this whole … this whole  _ thing _ . You here waiting up for me, and now we’re eating this … this prepared dinner together.”

“You’re pissed I’m eating with you?” you saw slowly.

“Yes! You’re usually asleep this late, and what’s with this production of your leftovers?”

“They’re not leftovers! I made us dinner. I thought I’d eat it with you, jeez.” 

What’s his deal?

“But we don’t eat dinner together! And you never make it for me!”

What the hell. Does he really think you just  _ always _ make too much? Like on accident?

“Oh, so it’s only ok for you to eat my food when you think you’re stealing it from me? Is that your reasoning? Did it ever occur to you that I always have leftovers because I know you eat them, dickface?”

He agitatedly runs his fingers through his hair. “I mean, not  _ stealing _ . I just thought you were ok with me eating your leftovers.”

“Because they’re for you!”

Mary huffs. “That’s not that point.”

“So then what is the point? What’s the fucking problem?

“You!”

Your mouth actually drops open.

“Me?  _ Me?! _ I stay up so we can eat dinner together, and  _ I’m _ the problem.”

Mary throws his hands up. “ _ Yes _ .”

You just stare at him.

“I see,” you say, even though you really don’t, his words making you feeling small.

He puts his head in his hands and screams in frustration.

“Christ. Not  _ you _ you. The way you’re  _ acting _ . This whole … performance,” he says, sweeping his hands at the plates of food. “You’re not little Susie homemaker. I don’t come here so you can meet me at the door with a cocktail and have supper on the table or some shit.”

You’re having a  _ flames on the side of my face _ moment. All you wanted to do was be nice to your supposed boyfriend. Whether the white hot spikes coursing through you are from anxiety, anger, or hurt, you can feel the burning behind your eyes—but damned if you’re going to let Mary see you cry. So you go on the offensive.

“For fuck’s sake, Mary! I’m your girlfriend. Is it so fucking unreasonable that I’d want to fucking see you? That I’d want to do something  _ nice _ for you?” 

He glares at you, “Yes!”

“Yes,” you repeat back deadpan.

Mary makes a sound of irritation. “ ‘Yes’, since you never have before.”

And boy does that feel like a slap in the face.

He goes on, as if he hasn’t just flamed you.

“I liked things how they were! I liked  _ you _ the way you were. I don’t want you changing for me. If I wanted someone to fawn over me and be nice I’d be fucking groupies. I know you’re better than that. Better than whatever reductive bullshit you tried serving me up tonight.”

You can feel the embarrassed flush rise to your face. He doesn’t think you’re nice? He wants you to continue to treat him as a booty call?  _ That’s _ the girlfriend he wants? You guess it makes sense. Of course some guy would find that the epitome of a good relationship. So, ok. If that’s what he wants.

“ _ Fine _ ,” you hiss as you grab up the plates. You walk over to your trashcan, and Mary flinches forward when you dump both contents into the opening. “There! Problem solved!”

You toss the plates into the sink, and they make such a loud clatter that you’re sure you might have broken something, but you don’t bother to check. Instead, you grab up the half-finished bag of sour cream & onion chips nestled on your counter and toss them at Mary. He catches them reflexively.

“That’s what you wanted, right? My leftovers that aren’t for you?” He’s looking at you with wide eyes, bag still clutched to him. “Well,  _ enjoy _ . I’m going to go to sleep now, because apparently it’s past my bedtime.”

You storm off to your bathroom and slam the door. Immediately you turn on the faucet so Mary can’t hear you as you try to take deep, calming breaths. You fill up the sink with cold water and dunk your face in as long as you can. 

_ Fine, whatever _ , you think as you perform your nightly ablutions. You were ok with how things were too. You can just pretend nothing’s changed. Before you knew gravity existed, you were never in danger of falling.

You’re half expecting Mary to be gone when you exit the bathroom, but you can still see the back of his head sticking up from the couch. You don’t pursue anything further, opting to just close yourself in your room for the night.

Before, you always found it silly that Mary never snuck in to join you, but tonight you’re glad that that’s apparently The Way Things Are, since a few tears manage to escape and wet your pillow.

He’s gone when you wander out the next morning (though you note he’s cleaned your dishes and taken out your trash).

A few days go by, and you don’t hear from Mary at all. Not like you’re surprised— _ you _ hardly know where the two of you stand, why should he? You find yourself staring at his text thread in your phone, but what would you even say? You’re not sorry and you’re not going to beg—and even “Let’s just forget about it, come by tonight” feels suspiciously like begging.

The whole incident seems  _ unfair _ , in your opinion.  _ He _ asked  _ you _ to be his girlfriend. All you did was make him dinner, and isn’t that what people in a relationship do? Care for each other? What a fine trick he played on you. Making you think it was ok to care for him and then berating you for it.

It’s nearly a week later—when you feel like you’re 2/3 of the way through making peace with the Relationship That Never Was—when you get a text from Mary.

_ Mary [4:35pm]: Ok 2 cum ovr? _

Your face heats up, and you’re not sure if you’re going to tell him to fuck off or to come over until you’ve actually sent your reply.

**Me [5:03pm]: Up to you.** **  
** _ Mary [5:03pm]: K _

If he was trying to fuck with you with his response, he succeeded. You decide your new philosophy when it comes to Mary is just to act the way you would have prior to The Girlfriend Event. So, even though every minute that ticks by is slicing paper cuts into your soul, you do everything as you  _ would _ have. You make too much dinner and set aside the excess; you binge a few episodes on Netflix as you eat; you FaceTime with a friend who wants your opinion on which new dress to buy; you box up the now-cool leftovers in some Tupperware and place them in your fridge; you fuck around on the internet. 

At nearly 11pm you call it a night. You’re brushing your teeth when you hear your front door open. On any day Before™️, you would have kept going, so that’s what you do. You finish brushing your teeth; you swoosh mouthwash; you scrub your face; you brush out your hair.

When you leave the bathroom, you find Mary leaning against the back of your couch, hands in pockets.

“Hey,” he says.

“Hey,” you say.

You wait, but if you expected him to say more, you’re disappointed.

“Well,” you start, “it’s my bedtime, so ….” You jerk your head toward your bedroom.

“Yes, of course.” He doesn’t say any more, nor does he move.

“Yes.” When he still doesn’t speak, you say, “Well, sleep well when you do, then. Good night.”

“I will. I mean—you too.”

You don’t invite him into your bed, and he doesn’t follow you.

He’s still gone when you wake up, but there’s evidence he slept on the couch, and your leftovers container is sitting in the drying rack.

The next encounter isn’t any less awkward.

You’re on a conference call when you hear the lock turn in your door. You usually try to work from a coffee shop—get the stink blown off you, get your step in and all—but you hate taking calls out in the wild. When he sees you—and hears the chatter coming from your laptop—Mary freezes.

You gesture him in. “I’m on mute.”

“Sorry—I thought …”

“It’s fine.”

“Ok.”

He sits stiffly in the other corner of your couch as you occasionally chime in on the call. When you finally disconnect, he turns and says,

“I didn’t realize you were working.” 

You squint at him. “I’m usually working.”

“You’re usually not here.”

And ok. He only came by because he thought you were gone. Totally cool.

“Ah,” is what you say.

“I can go … ?” he says, gesturing with his thumb toward the door.

You check in with Before You™️; she gives you a Gallic shrug, so you say, “I don’t care either way.” You go back to typing away as Mary continues to sit there stiffly. After a few minutes, you sigh.

“What did you come here for, Mary?” you ask, and then mutter under your breath, “Not for me, apparently.”

“I …” he starts, but doesn’t continue. After a few more beats, he says, “I’ll go.”

You pinch the bridge of your nose. “I wasn’t kicking you out. I legitimately want to know what you’re in my apartment for, if not for me.” 

He picks at his cuticles. “Sometimes I take a nap. Your place is … midway between practice and the bar. But you’re working. ”

You look over at him. Before You™️ is warring with Girlfriend You, but ultimately you decide that Before You™️ would have merely been irritated. So you’re  _ convenient _ , so what?

“It’s fine,” you say as you stand up to stretch. “I should be working at my desk, anyway. It’s hard on my back being crunched over. Have at,” you say, indicating the couch. You pick up your laptop and move into your bedroom, closing the door behind you.

A few hours later you hear the beep of an alarm and then the sounds of Mary moving about before the click of your apartment door closing. 

You don’t really get much more done the rest of that day.

Mary doesn’t stop randomly showing up at your place, and you don’t really dissuade him, but … to say things are strained is an understatement. You’re torn between having told Mary you’d try harder and your determination to be Before You™️. You realize it’s been awhile since you fucked him (your vibrator seems to live by your pillow these days), and you’re nothing if not fastidious. Before You™️ would be fucking Mary like crazy, so that’s what you’re gonna do. 

The next time he comes over, you sidle up to him, hands running up and down his sides and face pressed into his chest.

“Um,” he says as he just stands there. “What’s happening right now.”

You sigh. “Christ, Mary. Are you ever going to fuck me again?”

You’re still pressed into him—hands roving—when he says, “I don’t think I want to right now” and then extracts himself from your grasp.

And oh.

Oh, ok.

Your eyes immediately fill with tears at the rejection, and you’re mortified. You pull away from him and turn your gaze to the floor too hide your reaction.

“ _ Right _ . Ok. Well, I don’t think I want you here right now.”

“Suey …”

Head bowed, you turn away from him and open your front door.

“Please leave,” you say to the wall behind the door.

“You’re not being fair,” Mary growls.

Your head snaps back to him, even as the tears threaten to spill.

“Fuck you. I’m not going to spend another night dancing around you. It’s fucking exhausting. Either you want to be here, or you don’t. If you want to be here, then you have to be here  _ with me _ . I’m not a fucking hostel.”

“So it’s an ultimatum, then? Fuck you or fuck off?”

The tears make their escape, despite you willing them to stay put. You angrily scrub your eyes with the back of your sleeve, embarrassed. You’re usually better at holding back.

“Are you fucking  _ crying _ ?  _ Seriously _ ?”

You decide that you absolutely don’t have to deal with this. It was a good run, a worthwhile experiment, but it’s run its course. There are lots of boys to fuck in the sea. Thank you, drive through.

The tears continue to leak from your eyes—no use hiding them now—as you resignedly bob your head at him.

“Yeah, I guess I am.” You walk past him straight into your bedroom, closing the door behind you. You curl into a ball in your bed, biting your pillow until your hear your front door slam shut. Finally free, you let loose your wails of frustration. Ugly, racking sobs that clog your nose until you blow free the snot with the edge of your fitted sheet. 

When the door to your room suddenly opens, it startles you into an aborted hiccup. Mary stands in the doorway, eyes wet and looking pale.

“Please stop that,” he says quietly.

“Why are you still here?!” you blubber at him.

He shrugs.

“Fuck,” you spit out around your congestion. You turn away from him, still actively trying not to lose it again. “I thought you left.”

“I didn’t.”

You can’t decide if you’re thrilled he didn’t leave or if you’re livid you can’t have the privacy to feel all your ugly feelings.

All you say is, “I’m tired, Mary.”

“Ok,” is all he says in return.

You hear the door to your room click shut, but you also hear Mary moving around. You’re still leaking and softly keening, but even so, you feel the covers lift and Mary climbs into your bed behind you. He presses up behind you, bare-chested and in his boxers, and wraps an arm around your waist.

“Is this ok?” he asks. It is, but you burst into tears anyway. He stiffens, and you’re afraid he’s going to pull away, so you grab his hand and clutch it to you.

You decide  _ fuck it _ —he’ll leave or he won’t—and continue to grip his hand as you sob into your pillow. He awkwardly makes shushing noises at you as he pets your hair. You cry yourself into an exhausted sleep, and when you wake up, Mary is gone. Again.

There’s a finality to it, so you fumble for your phone and groggily email your manager that you’re taking a sick day. You sleep until way past noon, and even then your eyes are still crusty and half swollen shut. You have to get up to pee anyway, so you manage to stumble out of your room and retrieve your ice mask from the freezer. It’s the kind that blankets half your face, so you affix it around your head as you crawl back into bed.

When you wake up again it’s dark, and your eye mask is warm and sloshy. You can hear someone moving about in your apartment. There’s a little thrill that tells you Mary’s back, but another warns you that it could be nefarious, so you pull the hammer out from under your pillow. 

You eke your bedroom door open to reveal that it is, in fact, Mary in your apartment. In your kitchen. 

As if feeling a shift in the air, he turns.

“Oh. Hi. I’m making—why are you holding a hammer?”

"Thought you were a masher. What are you doing here?”

He furrows his brows at you.

“Dinner?”

“Dinner,” you repeat.

“Did you … get my note?”

“No.”

“Oh.”

He walks the 2 or so steps it takes to get to your coffee table and plucks up a piece of paper that you can now see was lying on your laptop. He extends it out to you. You toss the hammer onto your bed—where it bounces and clatters loudly to the floor—and take the proffered note from Mary’s reach.

_ Suey—had to go to practice. Be by later. Dinner on Me. – M. Goore  _

“Oh,” you echo.

He squints at you.

“Didn’t you work today?”

“I—” you start, then trail off, “no.”

“Fuck.” He rubs his face. “Can we start over?”

You scrunch your face. “Start over from where?”

“These last couple weeks. They’ve been fuck all. Can we just pretend we haven’t been horrible to each other and go from there?”

Your ire flares up and—before you can stop yourself from a knee-jerk response—you say, “How have I been horrible to you?”

Mary gapes at you. “Are you shitting me? I don’t even … you’re frosty on the  _ best _ of days, but lately you’ve been a total fucking ice queen. But then the instant you decide you’re horny, you’re all over me. I’m getting fucking whiplash here. Do you even like me, Suey? Or am I like some kind of sexbot to you?”

“Oh that’s real rich! You  _ love _ frosty. You’re happiest when I’m being a total bitch to you—you practically thrive on it. The instant I showed you an iota of warmth you accused me of … of, I don’t even know! Being ‘just like all those other clingy, codependent girls,' I have to assume is what you meant. You wanted things back the way they were, so that’s what I gave you.”

“So you’ve been spiting me this entire time, is that it? It’s been ‘Get back at Mary’ time?”

You cry out in frustration, crumpling the note and throwing it across the room.

“I DON’T KNOW WHAT YOU WANT FROM ME!” you shout at him. “One minute you’re asking me to be your girlfriend—then I act like your girlfriend, and you tell me ‘no, not like that.’ So I stop, only to have you accuse me of being petty! WHICH IS IT?!”

“I don’t want you to  _ be like _ anything ! I just want you to be yourself!”

“I was myself and you yelled at me!”

“No—you were changing yourself to fit some ideal that I accidentally gave you, and I don’t want that.”

“Christ, you don’t even know what what you want looks like, do you? I’m not ‘changing myself’ to suit you, asshole—I’m trying to be  _ more _ open, more _ myself _ , with you. There’s a big fucking difference. And fuck you for thinking I’d just wake up one day and become a Stepford Wife just because you got all soft.” 

Mary just sputters for a minute before saying, “Well, what did you expect me to think when you made me dinner out of nowhere?”

“I make you dinner all the time!”

“Not like that!”

“Oh, I’m sorry—I put it on a plate instead of in a Tupperware. Ok. Is that what you need? Do you need to feel like you’re taking it instead of being given it? Except—huh! That’s what I’ve been doing these last few weeks, and now I’m a frosty bitch. So what is it, Mary? What the fuck is it that you want, because I’m tired of guessing.”

You walk over to your fridge and yank the notepad off before slamming it down in front of him.

“Here, write it down. Let’s be on the same page.”

He glares at you. “You know what? I don’t need this fucking drama in my life.”

He stomps out of the kitchen and stormily gathers up his backpack. He angrily shoves his feet in his boots and laces them up violently. He yanks his leather jacket off its hook and grapples it on. He’s got the front door half open before he turns to acknowledge you.

“Fuck. You’re not even going to try and stop me, are you?”

You feel like you’re having an out-of-body experience, like someone else is controlling your body, when you pick up the notepad, waggle it, and say, “You didn’t write that down as something you wanted.”

It’s the wrong thing to say. You know it’s the wrong thing to say. There’s a million other things that you could’ve said. But you didn’t, and now you’re waiting for Mary to storm off and out of your life.

Instead, he leans his forehead against the door and closes it.

“Shit,” he says.

He turns around and slides down the door until he’s sitting up against it. He curls into himself, head in arms on bent knees. 

When he doesn’t move or say anything more, you sigh and pad over to joining him on the floor.

“I don’t know what being with you looks like,” he says into the fold of his arms eventually. He lifts his head up to look at you. “But I  _ do _ want to be with you. I feel like I fucked it all up.”

You place a hand on his arm.

“You didn’t … you didn’t ‘fuck it all up.’ I mean—maybe a little? But I … but you know I’m not … I’m not the best at these things, either. I guess you could say it was a joint effort.”

“I guess,” he agrees. After a moment he says, “I don’t ‘thrive on bitchiness”—I just … like it when you don’t put up with my shit.”

“Ok,” you nod. “And like, just because I do something  _ for _ you doesn’t mean I’m compromising my feminist integrity or whatever the fuck it is you think I’m doing. It’d be a pretty shitty relationship if neither of us wanted to make the other one happy, don’t you think?”

“I guess. It’s just … I like your autonomy. I don’t want you to think you have to compromise that to … I don’t know. Keep me ‘interested’ or whatever.”

“Can you trust  _ me _ then? Trust that I’m not changing who I am to please you? That if I please you, I’m still being my … Christ, my authentic self?”

He grabs your hand and rubs his thumb in the web between your thumb and index finger.

“Yeah. Ok.”

After that, the two of you help each other off the floor. It’s an uneasy truce you have for the time being, and neither of you want to upset the equilibrium. Mary continues to make dinner—having to refill the pot again, the water having drastically boiled down. He makes you buttered pasta with buttered saltines as a side. (_“I know it’s a ‘poor people meal,’ but it’s what my mom used to make me as comfort food. I guess my grandma used to make it for her.”_ **“It’s great. Thank you, Mary.”**)

He sighs when he has to leave for work, but you kiss his temple and tell him that he’s more than welcome to join you in bed if he comes by after the bar cuts him.

“You don’t have to sleep on the couch anymore, you know—you never did.”

And later when you wake up because you’ve flailed into something solid, all you do is rearrange the blankets and press your face into his neck.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OK, but you know Mary fished at least the chicken out of the trash. That's really why he took it out—so she wouldn't notice.


	3. Interlude 0

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some fun ensues when Suey wakes up to find Mary in her bed. Mary discovers something new about his girlfriend that he can't wait to exploit. There might also be some fluff.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please enjoy some smut while I work on advancing this story.

Sleeping 💤with Mary is an exercise in your tolerance threshold. 

He gets annoyed by the fact that you flail and always seem to elbow him in the face; you get annoyed that he shakes you awake to bitch at you. He also has the tendency to use you as a body pillow, which has had you waking up in a sweat because Mary is a goddamned furnace. 

Heaven forbid you _ say _ anything, however—last time you did, he heisted one of your pillows and pointedly slept on your couch.

And you think the boy would’ve known better than leaving his makeup on, but alack the day—it only took the one time of seeing your pillows covered in blood and white cake for you to have to buckle down on him _at least_ using a washcloth. _(“I don’t see what the issue is, it’s not like you’re the pinnacle of hygiene.”_ **“A little body gunk is way different than cheap fake blood!”**)

But it’s nice in other ways. Like: _ Mary is a goddamned furnace _, and not only does that solve your cold feet problem, but you also get the added bonus of startling the shit out of him when you make use of his warm nooks. When you wake up from one of your slasher nightmares, instead of grabbing for your hammer, you grab for Mary. Plus, he likes to wake you up with his fit guitarist’s fingers steadily going to town on your clit.

He’s not always around, though—there are gigs; and his friends; and his own apartment. On those nights, you can luxuriate in being able to starfish and not have to play the “cover on, cover off” game. Also, you have your vibrator, which is always good for a slow, intense orgasm or a quick climax.

Tonight is one of those nights—Mary’s band was playing a short set before close at Mickey’s, which meant drunken carousing with his bandmates—so you brought out the big guns. A little porn on your phone, and you’re cumming in no time, shoving the toy hastily out of the way as your roll over to go to sleep.

You wake up early the next morning because there’s a solid boy sprawled over you. His head’s on your chest, one hand resting on a tit, and one of his thighs is between yours. His boxers are on, but his flaccid penis is hanging out of the slit. It smells like he’s sweating alcohol, but at least it looks like he got (most) of his makeup off.

_ Goddamnit, Mary_. You don’t have to be up for another 2 hours! He’s out cold and—yep—drooling on you.

“Mary,” you say. Nothing. “Mary,” you say louder. Still nothing. You wiggle a little, trying to jostle him awake. Not even a twitch. You wet your finger in your mouth and stick it in his ear. This earns you a half snore and a body jerk.

“_Mary_,” you try again. A low rumble from his chest vibrates against you. He begins to slowly shift—unfortunately his slowly forming awareness starts and stops at the realization that he has a tit in hand, and he begins to fondle it. If possible, he presses into your further, and he starts rubbing his now hardening cock into your hip.

“Mare, c’mon,” you whine, trying to wiggle away. He grumbles and slides his hand from your breast down to your puss. Unsatisfied with what he finds there, he brings a finger to a suck into his mouth. When the wet pad of his finger makes contact with your clit, you’re appeased somewhat. He slides the digit up and down your slit—dipping down into your hole, then back up to circle your clit.

You close your eyes and rock into the motion. He turns his head to suck a nipple into his mouth, and soon enough you’re wet and slick.

“Mmm,” he rumbles, “there’s the juice.” Sluggishly, he squirms on top of you, slipping his dick to swipe in between your folds. You two rub at each other lazily, and Mary kisses you. He tastes like the bottom of a birdcage, so you push his face away.

“Your morning breath, dude.”

“Bitch,” he grumbles, but turns his head anyway to suck under your jaw. You put your hands above your head so you can brace against the wall, and Mary follows their movement with red, blurry eyes. 

Then he stops.

You wiggle your hips impatiently. “_C’mon _ … wake me the fuck up and—”

“The fuck is that?”

“Huh?”

“That—what is that?”

You turn your head to see that Mary is referring to the vibrator that you hastily shoved aside last night.

“It’s just my vibrator,” you say as you rock your cunt, trying to get the head of his cock to stimulate your clit—but Mary slips free so that he has the reach to grab for your toy. He slides off to your side so he can examine it up close. You groan and bring your hand down to massage yourself.

He looks over at you. “It doesn’t look like dick.”

“Why would it look like a dick?”

“Uh, you know? So you can …” he makes a thrusting motion with it.

You sigh. “You’re thinking of a dildo. I don’t stick this in me.”

His eyes trail from the vibe, down your abdomen, to your cunt.

“It doesn’t get you off from vibrating inside you?”

“No. It’s more for … direct stimulation.”

“Oh.”

He’s staring at your hand as it works between your legs.

“Can I watch you use it?”

You stop and turn your head.

“You want to watch me use my vibrator?”

He nods, blood-shot eyes wide.

“You won’t feel … useless?”

“The fuck would I feel that? It’s hot watching your touch yourself.”

“Yeah, ok,” you say as you hold out your hand for the device. He watches as you turn it on to your favored settings. You spread your legs, only feeling a little self-conscious when he slides down to get a better view. The first press to your clit sends a delicious spark of pleasure through you, and you moan as your eyes roll back. Mary pets your inner thigh.

You proceed to play a little—never letting your toy sit directly on your clit or stay in one place too long. You’re aware that you’re writhing and letting out breathy moans. Mary’s eyes flit from the show between your legs, up to you face, then back down again. One of his hands tweaks a nipple, and you let out an _ Ah! _ as you mash against the tip. Another hand slips over yours on the device.

“Can I?” he asks in his growling stage voice.

“Yeah!” you gasp and bring your hands up to clutch into your pillow.

Mary takes a less nuanced approach, apparently relishing in watching you jerk and squirm as he puts the toy more directly on your throbbing clit. He’s staring at you, mouth open, as you pant and thrash. You feel your climax approaching—and you mean to warn Mary to back off a bit—but before you can, he presses in more and you can’t stop yourself from bearing down into the never-ending vibrations as your orgasm explodes over you in pulsating waves. 

Your back bows, and you feel yourself squirt everywhere as you scream over and over. When you're finished, Mary is stock still and gaping at you, so you have to push away from him as you turn and curl into yourself, thighs squeezed together. As you pant, you hear the toy turn off.

A hand trails lightly down your flank. “Are you all right?”

You raise a hand up, implicit instruction for him to “hold on.” You unfurl slowly as your blood evens out. Even though it’s just Mary, and he’s gross, you’re still a little embarrassed. You roll onto your back and drape an arm over your eyes.

“Shit. I should’ve asked you to put down a towel.”

His rubs a hand over your belly. “What just happened?”

You peek at him from under your arm. “Don’t you know?”

“Not really? Did I … hurt you?”

Still high from your intense orgasm, you start giggling uncontrollably. Mary’s face journeys from concern to confusion to annoyance. 

“Well, then what?”

You wiggle up into his lap (his cock still half hard and hanging out) and rub your face on his.

“Uh, you gave me a squirting orgasm. I should have warned you … the, um … direct pressure. I meant to say, but—”

He pulls your head back by your hair to stare at you.

“_That _ was squirting?!”

“Um. Yeah. Don’t you watch porn?”

“Not _ that _kind of porn apparently.”

“What kind _ do _ you watch then?

Mary opens and closes his mouth a few times. “Don’t change the subject.”

He’s searching your face, and you feel yourself flush. You start to back off him saying, “Look, it’s perfectly _ normal_. I didn’t do it on _ purpose _… you just kinda—”, but he gathers you back up.

“No, it’s hot. I just didn’t expect … I’ve definitely jerked off to the thought of making a girl squirt.” His smile spreads across his face, and he’s showing teeth. “And now that I know how to do it, you’re in trouble.”

“Fuck, Mary.”

He grabs handfuls of your ass and jerks his hips at you.

“In the meantime, you mind returning the favor? Want your hand on me.”

“Yeah,” you breath out.

He takes your hand and spits into it—despite knowing there’s lube … _ somewhere _ on your floor—before bringing it down to his cock. You wrap your hand around his heat and stroke slowly up and down. He leans his head back—Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows—before snapping it forward again to watch as you jack him. His eyes glaze over even as he grips and grabs at your flesh. You’re going to be bruised all to hell.

You work him over good, changing up between long, slow strokes and quick sweeps over his cockhead. Mary’s thrusting up into your hand, words tumbling out of his mouth.

“Oh fuck. Yeah. Yeah, just like that. Oh god—faster.”

You speed up your strokes.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah—don’t stop. Don’t stop. Fuck. Oh fuck.”

He surges forward and shoves his tongue into your mouth, so you really let your hand fly. His nails dig painfully into your love handles, and suddenly he’s grunting into your mouth, his cum now hot and wet on your hand. You keep working him, and when he tries to jerk away from your touch, you say,

“_Shh_, take it. Be a good boy and take it.”

He’s just chanting _ fuck _ over and over as he slams his fists into your bed, gripping your sheets in his grasp. His dick gives a kick, and a small spurt of watery cum shoots out before you finally loosen your hold.

Mary collapses back onto the bed, cupping his dick.

“Oh shit. Oh fuck,” he gasps.

You smile smugly down at him. “One good squirt deserves another.”

His eyes snap to meet yours. “Shut the fuck up. C’mere.” He puts his arms out. You flop down next to him and he rearranges you onto his chest. You not so subtly wipe your hand on his boxers.

He snorts. “Real nice.”

“It is _your _ jizz.”

Despite telling yourself that you’re just going to rest your eyes for a minute, the next thing you know, your alarm is jerking you out of a sound sleep.

“Whatever that is, I’m going fuck it up if you don’t make it stop,” murmurs Mary where his face is smushed in your covers.

You scramble up the bed to turn it off. “Fuck,” you say, head in hands. You crawl out of bed and grab some loungewear before heading into the bathroom. The shower takes forever to warm up, but once it does, you allow yourself a few moments to stand under its warm spray before cleaning between your legs.

You’re never more aware of Mary’s presence in your apartment than when he isn’t up and about handing you a mug of coffee and a piece of toast. You blunder your way through setting the drip and merely grab a granola bar to nosh.

The morning’s half over when Mary finally emerges from your room. You’re in the weeds with an Important Work Thing, so you just grunt at him.

“Coffee?” he rasps.

“Counter. But it’s cold.” You gesture vaguely. 

“Whatever.”

You hear him pour a cup and the _ gulp gulp gulp _ as he swallows it down. In your periphery, you’re aware of him banging around your kitchen. He finally comes over and curls up next to you on the couch, munching on some toast. The two of you sit in companionable silence until he finishes his food and worms his head onto your lap. You absently run your unoccupied hand through his hair in between typing.

You’re pretty sure he dozes for a while, but some time later he says, “I feel like a Mac Truck hit me.”

“Yeah, I’m pretty sure you were still drunk this morning.”

He grunts.

Lunch approaches, and you close your laptop, stretching as much as you can with Mary in your lap.

“Hey—not that I’m complaining—but what are you doing here? I thought you had … things.”

He pulls himself up into a sitting position, pressing the palms of his hands into his eyes.

“Uh, yeah. Things got—we we’re gonna have post-show drinks at O’Reilly’s, then head back to our place so we could get up and work on some new stuff. But …” He sweeps his hand out.

You squint at him. “But you came here instead?”

Mary looks at you and worries at the hem of his shirt.

“It was obvious pretty quickly none of us were going to be functional today.”

“What happened?”

“I came here.”

You blink at him.

“Clearly.”

He sighs and scrubs he face in his hands.

“There were some fans …”

“Fans.”

“Ok, groupies. Uh, regulars.”

A spike of anxiety hits you, but you push it down. “Ok?”

He rubs the back of his neck.

“Some of them are cool. They can hang. But some of the others don’t take ‘no’ for an answer. The guys were good to go, buying shots and doing bumps with some of them in the bathroom, but …” He gestures at you. “I got a girl.”

Stupid relief floods you.

“When it was clear it was going to turn onto an orgy, I left.”

He’s curled all the way into the other corner of the couch, still tugging at his hem.

“Am I to take it that you’ve … been an active participant before?”

He nods, looking miserable.

“Recently?”

Mary shakes his head vigorously. He takes your hand.

“Not since … not since you.”

You rub your other hand over his knuckles.

“Ok. Thank you for telling me, Mary. But your past history is … it has no bearing on me—on us—unless you think there’s a pressing reason for me to know. I trust your judgment. Nothing happened, right?” 

He squeezes your hand, his eyes wide and imploring. “_Nothing _.” 

You wonder who hurt him.

“Hey,” you say, scooting into his space. You take his face in between your hands. “I trust you, ok? Don’t fuck it up and we’re good.”

He sighs and presses his forehead into yours.

“Fucking it up is my specialty.”

“Oh crap! Mine too—I guess we’re fucked.”

He lets out a laugh. You pat his cheeks harder than necessary, and he snarls at you as he pushes you away.

“I need a snack. You want?”

“Whatever.”

You end up making a pretty sick sandwich—some lunchmeat; square cheese; hard, unripe tomato; and pieces of bagged lettuce with spicy mayo on an onion bagel—which you cut diagonally. Mary’s rocking a pretty terrible version of puppy-dog eyes, so you hand him half (your intention all along, but he doesn’t need to know that), which he practically inhales in one bite.

“You working tonight?”

He nods.

“You wanna go back to sleep? Cuz, I have to get back to work.”

He shakes his head. “Can I … do anything?” He makes a gesture around you apartment.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

You pretend to ponder, before saying, “As it turns out, my sheets need to be washed.”

Mary groans.`

“No takebacks!” you sing as you open up your laptop.

Your apartment may be a shoebox with no closet space, a window that opens to a brick wall, a weed you can’t stop from growing out of a crack in the wall, a toaster oven that catches on fire past 250º, and a hall light you can’t turn on because the lightbulb will explode—but it has an in-unit washer/dryer in the bathroom (something you’ve never been as grateful for since you started fucking Mary).

He grumbles as he strides into your bedroom.

“And don’t forget you have to—” you yell over your shoulder.

“I have to sit on it during the spin cycle so it doesn’t take off. I know, I know,” he yells back. He emerges with a bundle of bedsheets. “I do the laundry here more than you do, you know.”

“Don’t get on your high-horse—half of that’s because you do _your_ laundry here.”

He sticks his head out of the bathroom. “Whatever. Like a few extra black clothes in your loads make a dif.”

You hear the lid close and the cycle start. Mary joins you on the couch soon after.

“You don’t really mind that I—”

“Oh my god, shut up. It’s fine.”

“K.”

You turn to him. “Anyway, I’ve always wanted a housewife.”

He gives you the finger.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not pictured: Mary drunkenly stumbling through the apartment, bumping into things and going "Shh"


	4. Now What?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Apparently being in a relationship means … intimacy 😱.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fic tags updated

You lean into the mirror—creating your favored doll eye—as the tinny noise of your Bitches Night Out playlist sounds from your phone. You and Mary are going out for some beers at O’Reilly’s since both of you have the night free and nothing to do the next day. Mary sits on the toilet seat going through your makeup bag. Every so often, he takes an item out, opens it, and does a smudge on the back of his hand.

You _ tsk _ at yourself when your hand wobbles and you fuck up a line. Mary looks up at you—then his eyes travel down to your derrière. You’re wearing your denim mini over thigh-length lace leggings, and it’s struggling to cover your ample ass, bent over as you are.

“Eyes up top, mister,” you say as you lick your finger to erase the wiggly bit under your eye. You already had to institute a “no-touching” rule, otherwise the two of you would never make it out of here. Mary loves the feel of you unrestricted though cotton—his band tees, hoodies, loungewear—and on any given night his roving hands are apt to start something. But you dressed up in what he calls your “fancy shit” seems to incite his lust on a very different level—so you wouldn’t put it past his roving eyes to spark something as well.

“You’re so hot when you want to be,” he says

You turn on the faucet to wet your hand, then flick it in Mary’s face. He sputters and ducks before he remembers he doesn’t care. He’s not in his stage cake, but he still wears a light dusting of white face powder and his skull accents. Instead of the blood dripping down his whole face, he has it tipping his forelock.

He grumps at you, but you just cackle. “I swear you’re half cat.”

“Whatever. Are you almost done? We’re gonna miss $5 Buds.”

“Yeah,” you say as you turn your head to-and-fro to assess the symmetry. “Just gotta put my lips on.” You hold out your hand for your makeup bag, but Mary hands you the burgundy tube.

“This one.”

“Mmm, isn’t this a little 90′s?”

His eyes sweep over you again and his hand indicates the NIN’s _ Downward Spiral _ shirt you’re wearing that you altered to tie in front.

“Aren’t _ you _ a little 90′s?”

“Point.” You take the tube and apply a dab on the center of each lip. Then you smear the color to each side with your finger. Through the mirror, your eyes linger on Mary’s plump lips filled in with a dull red instead of his usual black.

“Fuck, I’d kill for your lips.”

He mashes them together. “Is that why you’re always trying to bite them off?”

It’s true: you tend to fixate wholly on his lips sometimes when you’re making out. You give an exaggerated, dreamy sigh.

“They’re just so nice. Full, plump, well defined …”

“Weirdo.”

You shuffle over toward him and straddle his lap. Thumbing his bottom lip, you say, “I don’t usually hear you complaining.”

Mary leans back into the tank, his arms draping over it casually. “You’re breaking your own rule.”

Leaning in close you say, “I said _ you _ weren’t allowed to touch _ me _.”

You slide a hand under his t-shirt—the skin of his torso warm and smooth—and tilt your head as if to kiss him. His eyes flutter shut, and that’s when you tilt your head back up.

“Hey, can we play?”

Mary’s eyes snap back open, and he lets out a sigh of exasperation.

“You’re a fucking tease, you know that?”

You grab his jaw.

“Can. We. Play.”

His eyes cast down.

“I don’t know, Suey. I really don’t feel like spending the whole night wondering if my dick’s gonna explode.”

You pat his cheek. “That’s ok, Mare Bear. Thank you for telling me.”

He turns to nip at your palm. “Some other night, k?”

You lean back in and actually kiss him—a short and sweet thing.

“I was thinking about something else, anyway.” You thumb his lip again. “Wanna see your lips all full and puffy. Wanna paint them with my lip gloss—have you wear it all night.”

“Is that … it?”

“Well—you can’t wipe it off, and if it gets smudged, I reapply.”

“And what do I get?” he asks as he gives a small roll of his hips. “Thought I was gonna get lucky later anyway.”

You straighten up. “What you’ll get is knowing that you’re my _ very good boy _ and that you have pleased me _ very much _.” You smooth at a blackened eyebrow of his. “Don’t you like it when you’ve followed the rules and done a good job?”

Mary’s eyes are round and his pupils dilated. “Yeah. Yeah, ok.”

“Mmm,” you hum as you lightly sweep your hand over his stiff hair. “So good already. What a good job you’ve done keeping your hands to yourself.”

His eyes shine, and he says, “It’s easy being good for you.”

Mary and his inexplicable softness. 

“Yeah, well. Let’s get that lipstick on you.”

After gently wiping off his matte with a square of toilet paper, you rummage through your makeup bag for the ridiculous gloss you got as a sample with the purchase of something or other. It’s wet and shiny with a glittery sheen to it—and some kind of chemical that supposedly plumps your lips. The first and only time you’d worn it, your friend told you that it made your mouth look like a wet vagina. It makes Mary’s lips look like a delicacy you want to consume as an entrée at a ridiculously expensive French restaurant. With a white wine pairing or some shit.

He rubs them together experimentally. “Sticky.”

“Yeah, it’s not the kiss-proof kind, so don’t wipe at it.”

You admire you work for another beat, then have an idea.

“Wait—hold on …”

You reach for your phone, then start poking through the apps. He’s assessing his lips in one of your small compacts when you finally have your camera app ready.

“Uh …” he says.

“You have your porn, I have mine.”

“Whatever. I’m pretty sure my cum lips look better.”

* * *

You don’t really notice anyone on the street that looks twice at Mary—but then again, he’s in full demonsona, and most passersby try not to look directly at him. (Apparently he gets fewer freakouts when you’re on his arm, but that’s_ just because they don’t know I’m the one keeping _ you _ in line, Suey _.)

It’s embarrassing the amount of ownership you feel over Mary when the two of you go anywhere—like he’s a feather in your cap and not your autonomous boyfriend. But there’s just something about having this dramatic boy—in his makeup and leather jacket—on your arm and deferring to you that makes you feel powerful. It doesn’t help that he enjoys playing the part of your attack dog, happy to wait patiently until you tap him in—but a lurking, menacing presence all the same.

Of course, O’Reilly’s is really Mary’s bar—a place he and his bandmates have been frequenting for years (even if it’s a place you’ve been known to hit up on a bar crawl or for late-night eats)—so the staff and regulars obviously don’t buy the dark & mysterious routine from a dude who once sang “Paradise City” shitfaced while trying to _ Coyote Ugly _ on the bar. It doesn’t stop them from acting like you have some sort of … _ control _ over him—which, ok: you do—now that’s it clear you’re pretty solidly in the picture.

The barstaurant is what Mary calls a “Pop” dive bar. It’s dim enough and cheap enough to attract the college kids and the punks, but it’s clean and serves decent food all night so that the yuppies flock there too. The regulars don’t think too much of the dynamic (and Mary’s known to get into drinking games with the finance guys), but that doesn’t mean there aren’t … clashes. The bouncers visibly eye roll with their entire bodies whenever they see Mary in line.

“Goore. It amazes me you haven’t been banned yet,” says ‘Bruiser’ (what Mary affectionately calls him—his real name is Rodney or something) as he haphazardly marks at X on the back of Mary’s hand.

“I’m pretty sure that’s because my friends and I single handedly keep this place afloat when there’s not a game.”

When you thrust out your hand, Bruiser hums at you, like you’re guilty by association (not that he’s wrong), and swipes at your hand too.

“You should be keeping him in line.”

You give him a wolfish smile. “Where’s the fun in that for me?”

Bruiser rubs his eyes.

“Just … try to stay out of trouble?”

Mary slings his arm heavily across your shoulders as you enter the bar, set upon his own claim. It’s not so much about keeping guys from approaching you (“_ I mean, they can try. It funny watching you turn them down.” _ ) than it is a warning that anyone who starts shit with you will finish it with him _ (“Or maybe I just want to show off the pretty piece on my arm—ow, fuck” _).

As the two of you make your way to the bar, a few people call out, and Mary tilts his head at them. “Thursday is the new Friday” is apparently in full swing here. It’s crowded enough that you two have to squeeze into an opening at the bar, but not so much that you can’t carve out a space for yourselves.

You order the two of you a round of shots and a lite beer as a chaser. Mary knocks the whiskey back like it’s sugar water while you push through the burn. You immediately take a swig of the beer; some of it dribbles down your chin, and you wipe it away with the back of your hand. Mary tracks your movement. 

“Oh—you want some?” you say licking your lips.

“Yeah.”

You crook your finger at him, and he leans down.

“Open.”

His glossy lips part, eyes fixed on yours. You bring up the beer bottle and carefully tip it into his mouth. He closes his lips around the mouth of it as you pour, but easily lets go when you incrementally pull it away. Some of the gloss comes away with it, so you tell Mary to hold up. You dig into your bra to produce the tube of gloss, then reapply to his lips.

“_ Disgusting _,” comes a voice that startles the both of you out of your bubble. You turn to see a neckbeard in a hoodie scowling at the two of you. “You really going to let your bitch put that shit on you?”

Mary’s face darkens, and he straightens to much taller than his height.

“The fuck you just say?”

Mary lets a lot go—he’s a skinny goth boy who wears horrorface—but he hates it when men talk shit to you. Things that don’t even penetrate you seem to make his blood boil (**“How can you not know this is just a thing?”** _“I did, I just … didn’t know how _often_ it was a thing.”_).

“You really gonna let some bitch dress you like a faggot?”

Mary tenses at the same time as you spit, “I’m sorry about your small penis.”

Neckbeard sputters at you, and Mary steps in front of you.

“Call my girl a bitch again and I’ll tear the veins out of your neck.”

“Fucking snowflake faggot, like you could.”

“Is that supposed to be an insult?”

“You’re ok with looking like a fairy?”

“The fae are fearsome creatures, so yeah.”

“Don’t be a fucking smartass, freak. You know what I meant”

“If you mean the colloquial meaning of ‘gay man’, then yeah—I am.”

“That’s fucking disgusting.”

“I’ve found sex with men quite pleasant.”

“What the fuck, dude,” says Neckbeard, recoiling.

Out of nowhere, Bruiser materializes.

“Problem?”

At the same time as Neckbeard says _ Not at all _, Mary is gearing up.

“Yeah. He’s harassing Suey and spouting homophobic language.”

Bruiser is—as it happens—a gay man, and his face darkens.

“I’m sorry, sir. We don’t tolerate that kind of hate speech here.”

“Don’t tell me they got you toeing the party line?”

“Management reserves the right to remove any patrons they feel contribute to an unsafe environment.”

Neckbeard sputters. “Y-you will let this, _this_ _freak_ stay here, and kick out a red-blooded _man_?”

“He’s a pain in the ass, but hardly a public menace.”

“I’m touched, Bruiser.”

“Shut the fuck up, Mary.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I’d like to speak to the manager. I want him to know what kind of Yelp review I’m going to leave.”

“Of course, sir. This way …”

Bruiser leads Neckbeard away. Mary gives him a thumbs up, but Bruiser just glowers at him.

You consider Mary.

“You like to fuck men?”

Mary looks at you, brows furrowed. “Well, yeah. I’m in a punk band.”

You squint at him. “What does that have to do …”

His features school. “You … you do know that we’ve all fucked each other?”

Oh. 

You didn’t. 

“That—that makes a lot more sense.”

No wonder his bandmates resent you. You took Mary from them.

“Is … that a problem?” says Mary, his face impassive.

“No,” you say quickly. “I just—didn’t know. I’ve never seen you make googly eyes at a dude.”

He crowds into your space, placing his hands on your waist.

“I don’t make eyes at anyone’s who’s not you.”

You burst out into laughing that turns into stifled giggles.

Mary scowls at you. “Don’t be a bitch. I’m being _ sincere _.”

“No, it’s just … Mare—you’re the biggest flirt whoever made his family ridiculous. No, don’t shake your head at me—you are. I’m not the jealous type, but that doesn’t mean I don’t watch you play up your Evil Lothario persona when it suits you.”

He grumbles non-verbally at you, then deflects.

“Don’t you fuck women?”

“Oh,” you say, surprised. “Um. No? Not really.”

He tilts his head at you. “Not really?”

You shrug. “I mean, _ college _ … but no. I’m not sexually attracted to women.”

“Well, damn,” he says as he runs his hand through your hair. “I guess there goes all my hopes of a threesome.”

You smirk at him. “Does it?”

He stills when he gets your meaning.

“What?” you ask.

“I … I can’t tell if I hate that idea or not.”

“A devil’s threesome?”

Mary shudders. “I’m equal parts repulsed and turned on by that.”

You lean away from him. “Ok, wait. You have orgies with your band, but you’re stymied by a threesome with another dude?”

“I’m gonna sound like an asshole, but it’s different with a random groupie.”

“How so?”

His eyebrows twist.

“That was just fun. I never cared for them. Not like …”

He runs a finger lightly down your face, and you shy away from it.

“Gross.”

Mary narrows his eyes at you, then grabs you by the hips to pull you into him.

“But: I’ll admit that the idea of watching some dick that’s not mine fuck you is … appealing.”

You feel the growing bulge in his jeans. He leans down to murmur into your ear.

“Fucking into your pussy, like he has the right.”

He hikes your one leg over his hip and presses his erection into your crotch. You make a pleased noise.

“Watching your face contort with the pleasure _ he _ gives you. Watching you moan as _ he _ makes you cum.”

He ruts into you, and you wonder if he can feel your growing wetness. He presses his nose into your neck.

“Fuck. That makes you hot, too. I can _ smell _ you.”

“_ Fuck _, Mary.”

“God, what a little cock slut you’d be. Could I punish you after?”

You’re throbbing now between your legs, and you let out a soft moan.

“Yeah, you’d like that. Being punished for fucking a cock that wasn’t mine.”

You grind into him, and he slips a thigh further in between your legs, resting his foot on the rail under the bar. Immediately you grasp at him as you rock yourself back and forth on his thigh in little movements.

“How would you like to be punished? Should I take you over my knee?”

A thrill runs through you, and your back arches as you let out an _ Uhhn _.

“_ Yeah _,” Mary rumbles. “Take you over my knee and make sure to cherry that ass of yours.”

He reaches his hand around to press at you from behind, and the feeling goes straight to your clit. Your head lolls as your eye roll back. You’re sure some of the people in the crowd must be aware of what’s happening, but right now all thought is between your legs.

They’re welcome.

“Would you fuck me?” you breathe.

Mary growls. “Of course I’d fuck you. Gotta make you remember why you like my cock best. But only after I spanked you red. I’d want you to feel the sting every time I fucked into you.”

You rock hard into Mary’s thigh, and he pulsates the fingers pressing into you, ratcheting up your arousal.

“_ Oh god, Mary _.”

“Yeah, that’s right. Cry out my name. You know who owns your pleasure.”

You’re riding his thigh hard, your movements no longer discreet. You know Mary’s hard, but he’s just looking down at you with hooded, intense eyes as his clever fingers manipulate you. You rub your clit forward into his thigh, then rock back onto his fingers—your hips circling sinuously. You’re terribly close to climaxing if you could just …. You grip hard at his arms as you speed up.

“Fuck, I want it. _ I want to cum _.”

Mary’s other hand grips you harder, and he leans in so close you can feel his lips on the shell of your ear.

“I’d fuck your cunt hard to wipe away the feel of that other dick. Fill you up with my cum so you’d smell like me. I’d hold you down so I could cum into you again and again. Make you my cum dumpster. Would you like that? To have my jizz dripping down your thighs? So that everyone knew who you belonged to.”

“I’m such a slut! I don’t deserve it!” you gasp, your movements now jerky as you chase your orgasm.

“No you don’t,” he growls. “You’re so lucky to have my dick in you. If I could, I‘d always have you on my dick. That’s all you’re good for. Milking my cock. A fucking warm body. And you can’t even do that right. I should let that other dick have you, you worthless—”

“Fuck, fuck, _ fuck _,” you cry out as the throb between your thighs crests, hovers, then pulsates through your cunt from front to back. You press down hard into Mary’s leg as your pussy spasms, mouth open and drooling.

“Yeah, that’s it. There you go. Ride it out.” He pets at your hair.

Once you’re done, you slump forward into his shoulder, panting, and Mary wraps an arm around your waist. He extracts his hand from under you and brings it to his face. He closes his eyes as he brings his fingers to his nose and inhales. Then he slides them down over his lips and tongue.

A throat clears.

Mary jerks around as you sluggishly raise your head. Bruiser is standing behind you two, eyebrows raised.

“You two are fucking nasty, you know that? 

You just press further into Mary—mashing your face into his chest—not up to confrontation so soon after your orgasm.

“You think this is Amsterdam or some shit? Uh-huh. You need to get your asses out of here.”

You feel Mary shrug at him.

“What’s a guy to do when his girl’s this hot?”

“All right, love birds. C’mon.”

Mary grumpily readjusts himself as you ooze down to gather your things. Bruiser escorts you both out the back door and shakes his head, laughing, as he closes the door in your faces.

You press Mary into the alley wall and rub your tits on him.

“I thank you for the use of your shapely thigh, good sir,” you all but slur as you look up at him with a happy smile.

He licks his lips. “I can think of a better way to thank me.” He grabs your hand and guides it to the bulge in his jeans. You give it a squeeze and Mary growls in response.

“I swear to god if you’re going to tease me—”

“I’m not,” you say as you pet his dick, “but not right here. C’mere …”

You grab his hand, yanking him as he stumbles behind you. You lead him down another side alley and into an overflow backlot. A quick assessment has you saying _ Over there _ as you lead him to a walled corner with an SUV parked adjacently. He lets you maneuver him in between the car and the brick wall, his eyes predatory. You push him up against the wall with both hands, and he bounces a little; you press the line of your body into him and let your hands wander slowly down the plane of his torso.

You’re looking up at him, gaze full of intent, as your fingertips slip under the waistband of his jeans. His stomach contract as he inhales sharply. You’re just grazing the tip of his cock when Mary’s hand shoots up to your head.

“I want your mouth,” he rumbles as he applies a gentle pressure to your crown

You grin up at him as you sink down to a squat. “You _ have _ been a good boy.”

He lets out a _ Fuck _ and tips his head back into the wall. You reach up for his belt, but his fingers reach it first. “Put the lip gloss on, I want to see how it looks stretched around my cock.”

Mary fumbles with getting out his cock as you dig the gloss out of your bra. You hastily swipe the wand across your lips before shoving it back into your cleavage. Mary’s holding his dick at the base—it’s flushed and the tip is shiny with precum—but with his other hand he chucks you under the chin.

“You’re beautiful you know that.”

You roll your eyes. “You’re only saying that because I’m about to suck your cock.”

His grip tightens on your chin.

“And I’m going to ruin that pretty little face of yours.”

Then he pushes his dick into your mouth whether you’re ready or not—his hand slipping to the back of your head to keep you in place. Your own hand reaches out to steady yourself on his leg as he holds you like that. He lets out a sigh of relief, then his hand is gone.

“I want to watch you,” he says.

So you bob forward down the length of his shaft, then back up, trying to get him as wet as possible with your spit. You curl your free hand around the base to use in tandem with your mouth. When you reach his cockhead, you close your eyes as you suckle at it, twisting your lips around it as you tongue at his sweet spot.

“Yeah. Yeah, just like that. Fuck.”

You remove it from your mouth so you can tap the tip on your tongue. Mary lets out a breathy grunt, and you run your tongue around the ridge before lapping around his cockhead a few times.

“_ Uhn _, yeah.”

You suck it down to the hilt in one swallow, and Mary gasps, his hand slamming into the wall. You deep throat him for a bob or two, then pull off with a sucking sound so you can take a breath, making sure to keep jacking him with your hand.

Mary lets out a half whine.

After repeating that combo a few times, you settle in to work at sucking him off for really reals. It’s a good thing it’s a tight fight in the corner, since you’re able to use the car to help redistribute your weight—you probably can’t squat for long.

Mary’s earlier guttural noises have turned into something high and breathy. If you could spare a hand, you could probably cum again just from the noises he’s making.

There’s a tense moment when you hear footsteps in the gravel and you freeze, Mary letting out a soft moan of frustration and his cock throbbing against your tongue. But then the steps get closer, and you feel him tense. He puts a hand on the side of your head—whether to shield you from view or keep you from popping off, who’s to say?

The sound finally does round the corner of the car, and your hand tightens on Mary’s thigh. He feels like a coiled spring. There's a clink of a belt that cuts off suddenly.

“Whoops … _ sorry _,” slurs a male voice.

Then a pause.

“Girl, you ok?”

Mouth still full of Mary’s dick, you give a thumb’s up in the voice’s direction with the hand not occupied.

“Ah. Have fun.”

Then the footsteps stumble and recede, and you do pull off his dick. Mary spits out a _ Fuck _ and slams a fist into the wall.

“Stupid fucking drunk. I was enjoying that,” he says looking down at you. 

You’re feeling the burn in your leg muscles, which are starting to tremble.

“Wait—just let me …” you say as you try to shift around to a better position. You’re about to fold your knees under you when Mary says, “Wait. The gravel.” 

He shrugs out of his leather jacket and hands it down to you. You lay it down in front of you before kneeling on it.

“Why, Goore—you’re such a gentleman.”

His hand is behind your head again, tangling into your hair. “Shut up and suck my cock.”

You acquiesce, sinking back down and getting right to it. He’s by no means soft, but he’s not as hard as he was before the unfortunate interlude, so you deep throat him a couple times to coax the blood back in.

“Hhhghh, how are you so good at that.”

You hollow your cheeks for a long suck.

“Fuck.”

You start bobbing on him again when he says, “Look up at me.” You flick your eyes to him. “Yeah, just like that. Keep your eyes on me.” His own eyes are glazed and his mouth is parted. “Yeah, keep going. Faster.”

Speeding up, you try to keep the hand at his base in time with your mouth.

“Yeah, yeah. Don’t stop, don’t stop.”

You bob faster on his cock, and you see Mary’s body tense, then release. 

Tense. 

Release. 

He swallows audibly, the telltale stiffening obvious against your tongue, then he breathes out: “Keepyouhandgoing.” The grip in your hair tightens, and then he yanks you off his dick.

Your pace slightly stutters, but then you start jacking him as fast as you can as you squeeze your eyes shut. Almost immediately you’re hit in the face with the splash of his cum, and Mary makes this soft-moan thing in the back of his throat. He must really have been worked up, because he splatters across your face again and again. And again.

You ease up with your hand only when you hear him whine, but he just pushes your head forward as he presses back into your mouth, making a pleased rumble as he rubs against your tongue. He rocks into your mouth a little bit, and then the hold in your hair disappears and he withdrawals from your mouth. You feel him lean away from you and into the wall.

“Oh wow. Fuck,” he says laughing, then lets out a pleased hum.

You’re still kneeling on the ground, eyes closed and arms out for balance.

“Mare?”

“What? Oh—yeah, fuck. Hold on.”

There’s a rustling of clothes and a zipper, and then you sense him getting on his knees in front of you. He chuckles.

“Wow—I really got you everywhere.”

“_ Mary _.”

“All right, all right,” he says still chuckling. “Um … ok.”

You feel what can only be his t-shirt wiping at your face. And your ear. And under your chin. And at your hair.

“Just a few more …” he says as you feel him wipe at your eyes with his thumb. “Ok … you’re a little smudgy, but—ok.”

When you open your eyes, he’s right in your face.

“You’re right—that lipstick is amazing,” he says, and then he kisses you hard and rough with an open mouth, his tongue going straight for your tonsils. 

Despite being crunched between a car and a brick wall with the sharp gravel digging into your legs, you and Mary makeout sloppily with too much tongue and a lot of spit. His hands have found your face again and yours are braced on his chest.

The sudden noise of a car starting up and echoing off the wall has you both breaking apart.

“We should go,” you say.

“You think.”

It’s a little awkward to navigate in the cramped space, but you help each other up, your legs wobbling a bit. You hand Mary back his jacket, and he brushes off the detritus before donning it again. You notice that he keeps pulling the bottom of his shirt away from his stomach, and you laugh.

“Oh no! That can’t be comfortable.”

“It’s fine. It’s only cold and wet. And sticky.”

You hold out your arms to him, and he perks up. When he’s in your arms, you make sure to rub and smush his shirt into his stomach.

“Oh my god you’re such a bitch.”

“I’m helping!”

“How is that helping?”

“It’s just like acclimating to the ocean—you just got to dunk under in one go,” you chirp at him.

“Next time I’m just gonna leave you looking like a bad bukkake.”

At some point Mary started rocking the two of you, and you squirm until he finally lets go. He sighs.

“All right. Let’s get you home.”

He puts his hands in his pockets and starts striding out of the parking lot. You skip after him and thread your arm through his.

“Really? The night’s still young!”

He gives you an incredulous look.

“Suey, you look like you just got face fucked in a parking lot.” He gives you an appraising look. “Actually, that’s kinda hot. On second thought, let’s go to Sixes & Sevens—”

“Where?”

“_ Mickey’s place _. I have no problem with everyone knowing whose dick you just sucked. I’ll make them smell my fingers too.”

“Pig.”

“_ Hmm _, maybe I should reup.”

He pushes you against a wall and puts his hand between your legs. His face contorts into a look of surprise.

“Fuck, you’re wet. Like … really wet.”

“Well, what did you think—”

“_ Fuck _, are you still …” 

Suddenly he’s pushing up your skirt and diving his hand into your panties. You gasp _ Oh my god _ when his finger slip-slides over your clit. 

“How are you still _ so _ wet?”

You give him a sultry look.

“You know sucking your cock does it for me.”

He’s still fingering you, leaning into your space, when he says, “Maybe we should get a cab. I could be fucking you in 10 minutes. No drunks looking for a place to piss.”

With his clever fingers manipulating you, you have to admit the prospect is appealing. But …

“No,” you purr at him. “You’re going to get me off right now because it pleases me. Then we’re going to go get a little sloppy, and if you can keep your hands to yourself, you can fuck me that way you like when we get back to my place.”

Mary presses into you like it’s a reflex.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“And if I can’t?”

“Then it’s you and your hand, mister.”

His fingers go to work at you. They’re sloppy, artless—unlike his usual careful manipulation—but you’re already halfway there from the blow job and that, combined with him sucking bruises into your neck, has you mewling and pushing at him in no time. The pad of a finger suddenly presses hard onto your clit, and you make a wounded noise. It doesn’t leave, and you feel the direct pressure keenly. You start twitching and letting out small noises.

“Oh oh oh … Mary—oh god … Mary …”

He turns his head to kiss at the hinge of his jaw, but his finger just. Stays.

The pressure is all at once Way to Much and Not Enough, and you’re thrashing you head back and forth.

“Mary, Mary, Mary, Mary …”

You’re asking for mercy, but he’s granting you no clemency.

It’s a slow build to your orgasm, but you feel every second of it intensely. Your head tips back, and your nails scrabble at the wall as you moan _ Oh oh oh oh _ in time to the pulsating of your clit. You’re making these embarrassing high-pitched wounded noises as the throb between your legs worsens.

When you finally cum, it’s almost painful, and you grapple at Mary’s arms, sinking your nails into him. Your screams bounce off the walls around the two of you, and Mary covers your mouth with his to muffle you. You’re dimly aware that you just squirted everywhere, soaking your leggings, the fluid dripping down your legs.

You jerk when Mary runs a gentle circle around your over sensitive nub, and he wraps an arm around your waist to pull you into him. 

“I made a mess,” you say as Mary withdraws his hand. You meant for it to be funny, but once it comes out, it sounds small and your voice wavers.

Mary wipes his hand off on his jeans and brings his other arm around you.

“I guess we’re matched now—both covered in sex juice.”

The wetness on your legs is beginning to cool, and the droplets are beginning to settle into your socks. Suddenly the thought of going anywhere else other than home is unappealing. Cleaning some semen off your face in a bar bathroom is much different than dealing with soaked bottoms all night. You push away from him.

“You did that on purpose!” you say as you tug on your damp leggings.

“I—what?”

“If you really didn’t want to go back out, you just could have said!”

Mary’s looking at you helplessly. 

“You asked me to get you off …”

“I can’t go anywhere like this, Mary!”

He closes his eyes and pinches the bridge of his nose.

“Are you really fucking mad at me because I made you cum too hard?”

“You knew what would happen!”

“Jesus fucking christ. There’s never any winning with you sometimes.”

You turn and start walking away.

“Where are you going?”

“_ Home _.”

“Yeah? You gonna walk the whole way?”

“Ye**p**.” Maybe taking off your leggings will help. Except then your ass will be hanging out.

“Suey … that’s an hour’s walk. Let’s get a cab, ok?”

You spin on your heel.

“I’m all wet, Mary! I can’t _ sit _ in a _ cab _. I’m disgusting.”

You turn back around and continue walking. After a bit, Mary catches up with you.

“Let’s get a cab, you can sit on my jacket.”

You look at him. “I can’t do that.”

“Why not?”

“Well I’m … it’s …” you sputter.

“It _ was _ really hot. Fuck, I think I almost came in my pants.”

“But—”

“So I literally don’t give a fuck if you sit on my jacket.”

You don’t say anything, but you don’t fight him either.

“Look, we’ll get a cab; you can change; and we can go to the bar down the street from you. Ok?”

You stop and look at him.

“Ok.”

He looks at you, then rolls his eyes, shaking his head.

“You’re a fucking pain in my ass, you know that?” He bundles you into an embrace. “I don’t know why I keep you around.”

You let him enfold you in his arms, but don’t hug him back.

“Probably the blow jobs,” you say into his chest.

He cradles the back of your head and you feel him smell your hair.

“Definitely one of the top 3 reasons.”

The two of you get a cab and—true to his word—Mary lays out his leather jacket for you to sit on. When you get back to your apartment, you make a beeline for your shower. You strip down to everything but your panties and leggings—those you’ll shower in.

The shower is amazing, and you relish in washing the night off your body. When you’re done, you hang the wet garments over the shower rod and wrap yourself in your robe.

You find Mary conked out on top of your covers in just his boxer briefs. One of his hands is on his chest and the other is sprawled across your bed; his mouth is open and there’s a little drool in one of the corners. You climb onto the bed and lie on top of him

“Huh, wha?” says Mary as he startles awake.

“Nothing. Go back to sleep.”

A hand rests on your back.

“Wasn’t sleeping.”

“Mmhm.”

“Just resting my eyes.”

“Mmm.”

He rubs your back a little before saying, “Should we get moving?”

“Can we just stay like this?”

A pause.

“Sure.”

You lay like that for awhile, feeling Mary’s chest rise and fall under you.

“M’sorry,” you mumble.

“Hmm?”

“I’m sorry I was such a bitch.”

“Yeah. I didn’t like that.”

You consider for a moment before saying, “My parents used to pull that shit on me.”

He breathes in. He breathes out.

“Which?”

“They’d—they’d give me permission to do something or whatever, and then they’d manipulate it so they got what they wanted anyway. Um, like one time I wanted to go to this concert? And they said I could if xyz, you know? I got the ticket and everything. All my friends were going. We had all these _ plans _ . And then like. The night before, my parents held up my English class roster. I had this paper due the next week and they asked me to show them my research notes. Obviously I didn’t have any research notes because I’d planned to spend that Sunday at the library. So they revoked their permission. Said I promised this concert wouldn’t interfere with my schoolwork, and _ obviously _I hadn’t kept that promise. All my friends went to the concert that Friday and my parents drove me to the library. Said it was a lesson in responsibility.

“That’s just the one that really made me realize how fucked up they were. I know it sounds stupid—boo-hoo I missed a concert, but it's really the thousand little paper cuts like that. It’s about how stressful it was never knowing what I was actually allowed to do, and what was fake. Having to always go the extra mile and second guess myself. To do everything right and get tripped up on a technicality.

“One time I saved up to buy this dress to one of the proms I’d been asked to? And they knew that. They praised me for being fiscally responsible. I kept my grades up. I stayed on top of all my assignments and made sure all my chores were done. They helped me with a deposit to the group limo. And then a week before—you know, I didn’t even remember what bullshit reason they found. But they found something. And it’s like they knew I was going to go anyway, so they returned my dress and drove us out to grandma’s for the weekend. 

“It kinda beat me into submission, you know? I just. Stopped doing things. Like, what was the point, right? The dance? The new movie? Game night? They always found a reason. And my friends? Just stopped inviting me out to things. They said my parents would just find a reason to block me anyway and that they were tired of working around it.

“So, I dunno. Tonight? It felt a little like that. Like you’d wanted to call it a night, and when I didn’t want to, you found a way to get what _ you _ wanted while pretending to give _ me _ what I wanted.”

Mary lightly scratches down your back through your robe.

“That sounds really fucked up.”

“Yeah.”

“Are they …?”

“They disowned me.”

Mary lifts his head.

“What? _ Why? _”

“I—not tonight, ok?”

“K.”

The two of you lay like that, unspeaking, for a while. After a while you become aware of Mary’s hardness under you.

“Did you want to fuck?”

His hand stills.

“What?”

You squirm a little.

“I can feel you.”

“Suey. You’re laying on top of me. What did you expect? But no: I don’t want to fuck.”

“Are you sure?”

“This is kind of nice, actually. As it is.”

“Gross, but ok.”

“Can I kiss you?”

“Whatever.”

Mary maneuvers his head until his mouth meets yours. He starts with your lips, then moves onto slipping you some tongue. You meet his kiss, gently tangling your tongue with his. He runs his hand through your hair, then rolls you onto your sides. His thigh slips between yours, but he doesn’t grind against you or anything. Still—his dick hasn’t seemed to get the memo. You slip your hand down to cup him, but May flinches and catches up your hand.

“Hey. I said it’s fine.”

“But you’re—”

“I said, _ no _.”

You bury your head in his neck.

“Ok. But … do you _ really _ not want to, or is it something else?”

“Why do you think I’m some sexbot?

You bring your face to Mary’s and squish his between your hands.

“I don’t think that, Mary. It just seemed like—I dunno—you were falling on your sword or something.”

“Fuck, Suey. I don’t expect you to understand. You always seem ready to go. Like we could be having the worst fight, but if I took my dick out, you’d still drop to your knees and suck it.”

You flush at being read.

“But I don’t—I know my dick thinks it’s gonna get lucky because you’re so close, but _ I’m _ just not in the mood. If you want an orgasm, I’m happy to give you one—I’m always happy to make you cum—but I’d rather not myself, ok?”

You kiss his nose. “Ok, Mare Bear. But if you change your mind …”

“Noted.”

The two of you make out lazily. Mary’s hands slip into your robe and roam all over your body—a light caress here and a grabby handful there—but you keep yours at his face and in his hair. Soon, he has his face in your neck and his one hand is kneading at your breasts. Because he’s pressed close to you, you can feel the throb of his cock. His finger sweeps over a hardened nipple, and you moan at the sensation. Mary ruts into you, then whines. 

You pet his head. “It’s ok, Mare. You can fuck me.”

“But I don’t _ want _ to want to fuck you. I should be fucking able to just lie here with you without fucking wanting it.”

“Why?”

“_ Because _.”

“Ok, but if I want it and you want it …?”

He tilts his head back. “Christ, you’re frustrating. Look—you were kinda right earlier. You wanted to go out, and instead it became all about where we could fuck. Is that all? Are we just strung together by times we’ve fucked and times we could be fucking?”

You consider his words.

“I don’t have many relationships, Mary. They kind of seem like a waste of time? And if I get horny, there’s always a bar full of guys to fuck. But, I dunno. You’re different. You don’t want things from me. I feel like I can just … _ exist _ with you.”

“I want a lot of things from you.”

You huff.

“You don’t want _ idealized _ things from me. I don’t know where you’ve gotten this idea that the only thing we’ve got in common is our genitals.”

“Don’t say _ genitals _.”

“Our _ nethers _.” Mary groans. “But I feel like in a pie chart of my life, there’s a big slice devoted to Mary Rants. About capitalism, about the patriarchy, about gender construct, about slow walkers—”

“Who are these people who have nowhere to go?!”

“—and another devoted to the plotline of the WWE wrestlers.”

“I won’t apologize for that. It’s dramatic as fuck AND there’s head bashing. Everyone who disses it is missing out on some serious soapy shit.”

“Such on brand Mary.”

He grumbles.

“Fine, ok. But—you’re like this vault, and I only have a lock pick.”

“Am I?”

“Yeah.” He presses an index finger to your forehead. “I know there’s gold in there. But I can’t get at it.”

“Hmm.”

“Hmm?”

“I’m ruminating,” you say.

“You and your 10¢ words.”

“I won’t apologize for my vocabulary.” 

Mary pecks your lips. “Wasn’t asking you to.”

You sigh and snuggle—yes, ok _ snuggle _—into him.

“I guess I take too much pride in being independent. And, I mean … I think we work because we’re _both_ independent people looking for—I dunno—a partner to come home to, not someone who follows you around. But—I’ll try, Mary. To, I dunno—hand the gold bars out through a slot or whatever … it’s your stupid metaphor.” 

“It’s a start.”

You blow a raspberry at him, and he retaliates by gently biting your tongue. When you squeal in consternation, he just sucks it into his mouth. You try to push away from him, but he just rolls on top of you and begins to blow raspberries into your neck

“How do you like it?” _ Thhpbt _ “How do you like it now?” _ Thhpbt _ “You think that shit is funny?” _ Thhpbt _

You’re laughing and trying to push him off you, but he has you thoroughly pinned.

“Wait—no! Stop!” you beg in between giggles.

He buries his face between your tits and gives you the biggest one yet.

“I will fucking murder your face, Mary Goore!”

He looks up at you, eyes glinting boyishly. “You’d have to get free first.”

You start kicking with your legs, and he tries to keep you pinned—but you bring your knee up, and he flinches away preemptively.

“Don’t play dirty!” he exclaims as you take your advantage to roll back on top of him.

You lick his face and try not to cringe from the awful taste of the makeup on it. Mary makes a disgusted noise.

“Did you mean murder my face like a kitten? Seriously, fucking stop.”

Still ignoring the bitter taste of his makeup, you continue to lap at him. He grabs you by the hair and drags your mouth down to his. Him sucking your tongue into his mouth (_ “Ugh, is that what I taste like?!” _) is initially a matter of defense, but it soon turns into a heated kiss. Mary’s gripping your hair and pressing up into you as his tongue pilfers your mouth. He wrenches your head back so he can kiss down your neck.

“What about now?” you gasp. “Can I take your cock now?”

“Ugh,” he huffs into your neck. “I hate it when you win.”

He rolls the two of you back onto your sides, and his hand travels down to your cunt. You’re by no means soaking, but the play fighting and subsequent kissing have made you wet enough. Mary thinks so too, and—after some fumbling with his underwear and your robe—his cock finds your hole and pushes in. He makes a sound of relief, as you gasp, and begins to slowly thrust in and out of you.

The position is a little awkward, even with your leg hoisted over him, and you say, “I can turn around if …?”

But he just draws you closer. “No, this is fine.”

His thrusts are slow and steady, him slowing you down every time you try to pick up the pace.

You whine. “Mare—”

“_ Shh _—it can be good like this.”

He finds your mouth again, his one hand tangled in your hair and the other gripping your ass. You let him slowly fuck into you, your hand snaking down to play with your clit. It takes longer than when the two of you pound frenetically at each other, but soon enough Mary is stuttering and trembling with the need to cum.

“Are you close?” he mouths at you. “I want to cum with you.”

You squirm. “Mary …”

“_ Please _ …”

You suck his tongue into your mouth and start tapping quicker on your clit. You dredge up your favorite x-rated fantasy. All you need is …

“_ Faster _—oh please, Mary …” you plead, breaking away from his mouth.

He presses you into him harder as he begins to thrust faster. Your eyes are squeezed shut as you will your orgasm to happen.

“Suey—this pace … I can’t …” whines Mary. He slows down a little, pumping into you with longer, deeper thrusts. You press into your clit, hard, and clench around him, loving the feeling of being filled, of having something pressing back against you.

“Oh my god,” hisses Mary, and then he slams suddenly into you. “_ Ughn _,” he grunts out as he empties into you. 

It’s actually enough to push you over, and your eyes roll back as you start to pulsate and spasm with the waves of your orgasm.

“_ Ah ah ah ah _,” you punch out.

And then the two of you are clenching and grinding and grabbing at each other, mouths meeting and then smearing across faces and necks.

When it’s over, your leg is draped and hanging over his hip, his face is mashed into your shoulder, and your arms are wrapped around his head. You are both panting, hearts rabbiting.

“Fuck,” says Mary into your shoulder.

“Double fuck,” you say, and Mary huffs out a laugh. He raises his head to capture your mouth in a lazy kiss.

You’re both sticky with sweat, and it’s a messy business separating. Mary reaches out to you, but you’re already bouncing off the bed.

“No, _ why _?” he whines as he makes grabby hands at you, but you’re already shrugging your robe back on.

“Do we have to go through this every time? I’m going to pee—I’ll be right back.”

You’re on the toilet when Mary wanders in—nude and soft cock bouncing. 

“_ Mary _,” you squeal as you cover yourself with your hands.

He squints at you. “What?”

“WHAT IF I WAS TAKING A SHIT?!”

“Are you taking a shit?”

“_ No _, but—”

He turns the sink faucet on. “Then what’s the issue?”

“Fuck, leave _ some _ mystery!”

He grabs his Mary-designated washcloth and looks over at you as he runs it under the water.

“I don’t really want ‘the mystery’. I want the real thing.”

Mary begins to wipe in between his legs, and you turn your head away with a disgruntled noise.

“I don’t get what the big fucking deal is. I probably know what your, uh, vagina—”

“You can just say ‘cunt’, jesus christ, this isn’t health class.”

“—your _ cunt _ looks like better than you do. I’m up there enough. And earlier tonight you were covered in my jizz.”

“It’s-it’s—I don’t know! Kind of gross?”

“You peeing is grosser than semen?”

You press the palms of your hands into your eyes.

“Yes?”

The faucet shuts off. “Fine. I'll tell you what. You promised to be more open. So you can either finish peeing—don’t deny it I know I interrupted you midstream—

“Christ, Mary—”

“—or you can tell me one personal, intimate thing, and I’ll leave.”

You turn to glare at him. He’s standing with arms akimbo, modesty be damned. You keep his gaze as you unclench and finish peeing. He grins at you—a wide, fearsome thing.

“Ok, ok—get out. That’s all you get tonight, drive through.”

He leans over to kiss your head, and you make a mean lemon face at him.

When you get back into your room, Mary is in a fresh—well _ different _—pair of boxer briefs and is straightening out your sheets. You hang up your robe and shimmy into the old tee of his that you’ve claimed as yours. When he turns and sees you, his eyes linger, but he doesn’t say anything.

You both climb into bed, and you allow him to big spoon you—with the understanding that the second he falls asleep you retain the right to extract yourself from him. He snuffles into your neck and sighs. 

After awhile you say, “Sorry that that’s not the way I promised to let you fuck me.”

He huffs into you. “How do you know how I wanted to fuck you?”

"It was _ implied _.”

“You said ‘that way I like’. I like the way we fucked just fine.” 

“But I—”

“_ Hush _. Let’s just go the fuck to sleep, ok?”

"Yeah, ok.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Suey waking up in the middle of the night: “Mary—did you sleep with Bruiser?!”  
Mary: ...  
Suey: “Oh my god, you did.”  
Mary: “No comment.”


	5. Planning Ahead

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On a late-night shopping expedition, Suey decides it's time to stock up on some sorely-needed items.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is kinda short, but I just couldn't make it work as a flashback scene! Meatier chapters soon!

You and Mary are on a late-night mission. Sure, you definitely have work tomorrow, but when Mary had crashed into your place saying, “Get in loser, we’re going shopping,” you’d hastily scrambled to change into a cardigan dress. And brush your hair. And apply a little eyeliner (_“Christ, Suey. It’s not as dramatic now that I’ve been waiting on your couch for 10min.”_ **“Wait for me if you want to live.” **_“Ha ha.”_)

The two of you are in an off-brand bargain store that’s open until 2am. Mary’s resting on the front of your cart like a ship’s figurehead as you roll and wheel through the aisles. He’s ostensibly here because now that Halloween season is upon you, he’s out to stock up on the fake blood and white cake—but a few sundry items like deodorant also make up the contents of your booty.

You’re passing through the baby aisle, when your eyes catch on a bottle of Pedialyte, and you stop. Mary turns his head, and when he sees what you’re looking at, he quips,

“You have something to tell me?”

You pick up the bottle, considering, and then turn to him.

“We should really have some aftercare stuff for you.”

He blinks at you and slips off the cart. “Uh. What?”

You pick up another bottle and put both in the cart. Mary stares at them.

“Hmm. We should make you a box of stuff you like. Oh! Let’s go back to the Halloween aisle and get some candy.”

You’re halfway down the baby aisle when you notice Mary isn’t following. You turn to see him gaping after you.

“What?”

He slowly walks to meet you.

“It’s just very …  _ official _ .”

You squint at him. “As opposed to what?”

He shrugs. “I dunno.”

Have you read this wrong?

“Should I … put them back?”

He shrugs again, and you try to decipher the subtle hints in his movements.

“Do you … not like it when I take control?”

A shrug.

Who is this Mary? Your Mary is brash, unapologetic of his Id, and loud about what he likes. The only time when—oh.  _ Oh _ .

You walk over to him and grasp him by the jaw.

“Yes or no, Mary. Do you like it when I take control?”

“Y-Yes.”

“Do you want me to keep taking control?”

“Yes.”

“Then go get a few bags of chocolate, and meet me in the first aid aisle.”

Mary’s eyes are saucers, and one quirk of your eyebrow has him scurrying off.

_ Well, that was certainly unexpected. _

You’ve already got the ice wrap and a first aid kit in the cart when Mary comes practically skipping to meet you. He’s got a big grin on his face, eyes bright, and his arms are full of bagged chocolate and—

“It’s a coffin!” say Mary as he gleefully holds out a box shaped like a coffin to you.

You nod at him.

“Ok?”

“We can put my stuff in it! It can be my aftercare coffin.”

Usually Mary’s grins are full of impish menace, but right now he looks like a little boy showing off a frog he just caught. You smile back.

“I think that’s a very good idea, Mare bear.”

“I know,” he says as he dumps his treasures into the cart.

He’s eyeing the first aid items when you toss a bulk bottle of ibuprofen onto the pile. He runs a hand over the ice wrap box and plucks up the bottle. His eyes flick up to you.

“This shouldn’t excite me.”

You shrug, pretending to reach for the bottle.

“I could put it back …”

Mary yanks the bottle to him and snaps his teeth at your hand.

“Fuck off.”

You put your hands on your hips.

“That’s  _ one _ .”

You mean it playfully, but an older woman neither of you had noticed goes,  _ Mmhm _ at your words as she wheels by. Mary glares at her, baring his teeth.

“Don’t you look at me like that, boy. My momma was scarier than you.”

You hold back a giggle as the woman turns the corner.

Once you’re sure she’s out of range, you burst out giggling behind your hand. Mary gives you stink face before tossing the bottle back in the cart. He hops back on the front of the cart, this time facing you, and you start pushing it back through the store.

“You could, though,” he says after a while.

“Hmm? I could what?”

“If you wanted to play in public. Could be hot. I mean,  _ ask _ me, but.”

Your heart gives a leap of excitement, but you keep your face schooled.

“I’ll keep that in mind.”


	6. Spare the Rod, Spoil the Mary

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Suey decides Mary's ass could use a little color

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fic tags updated
> 
> As always, this isn't an endorsement, just two messy people making mistakes along the way.

Mary hasn’t done anything wrong. You just want to play.

As usual, his schedule is a living thing, subject to the whims of Mickey and Mary’s feelings toward his financial solvency.

Which means: he’s late. Which gives you a perfect excuse.

You lay out your wares—from a trip to the dollar store a few days before—on your coffee table: a heart shaped wooden spoon, a wooden hairbrush, and a belt. You’re practically vibrating with anticipation, barely concentrating on the show you’ve got on the TV.

When you finally hear the key on the door, you adopt an air of nonchalance.

Mary comes in, toeing off his boots with a tired  _ Hey _ .

“You’re late,” you spit, not looking at him. “Hands and knees on the floor behind me.” 

There’s only a slight pause before you hear him rustling to obey you. When you’re sure he’s in position behind the couch, you say, “You’re to stay like that until I’m good and ready for you. Maybe you’ll learn how it feels to have to wait on somebody.”

You finish the episode you’re watching, then you start another. Mary, like a good boy, doesn’t make a peep. You’re tempted to make him wait longer, but you’re antsy to get there. You turn off the TV.

“Come here,” you demand. “And don’t even think about doing it on 2 feet.”

There’re the telltale sounds of Mary shifting and then crawling across the floor until you can see him round the corner of the couch. He keeps his head down even as he maneuvers around your furniture. You shift over to where he is so that you can run your fingers through his stiff hair.

“Such a good boy. You follow direction so well.”

It’s slight, but you feel him lean into your touch.

“Because of that, I’m going to let you choose.” You slip your hand down so you can tilt his face to the coffee table where your tools are laid out. “Nothing is going to get you out of your punishment for being late, but I will let you pick what I punish you with.”

Mary considers for a while—enough that you’re afraid you’ve overstepped and are about to call an end—but finally he says, “The hairbrush, ma’am.”

A thrill rushes through you, and you stroke his cheek.

“Thank you for choosing. Do you want your spanking here or the bedroom?”

“The bedroom, ma’am.”

“All right,” You pick up the hairbrush and tap at his lips. “Open.”

Mary opens his mouth and you put the handle of the brush in it.

“You will take this to the bedroom and wait for me. You are to keep this in your mouth and kneel at the edge of the bed. Got it?”

Mary grunts around the handle and gives a quick bob of his head. Then he’s off crawling to your bedroom. You hate for him to leave, but you love to watch him go—his jeans nicely accentuating the curve of his ass as he moves. You set a timer on your phone for 10min, only moving to join Mary once it’s gone off. He’s followed your orders to a T, kneeling at the foot of your bed with the brush still in his mouth.

“Very good,” you coo as you stroke his face before retrieving the brush. You situate yourself on the bed. “Jeans off, then over my lap.”

Mary scrambles to get out of his jeans as you eye the bulge in his boxer briefs. Once he’s free of his pants, he drapes himself over your lap so that his torso is resting on the bed. You rub the cheeks of his ass through the cloth of his underwear.

“How ‘bout a little warm up, hmm? Ten on each?”

Your question is rhetorical, so you get to work right away, giving him firm, alternating smacks on each cheek. Except for the jolt of each spank, Mary doesn’t move at all—nor does he make a noise. Once you’re done, you give each cheek a rub and a squeeze before pulling down his boxers. His ass is flushed a nice pink, and you smooth your hand over it.

“Are you ready?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“And if you need me to stop?”

“Nickelback, ma’am.”

“Good boy.”

“It’ll be 16 total—8 on each side.”

At the first strike—in the meat of his ass—you hear Mary punch out a breath. At the fifth—on his crease—he grunts. By 11 he’s squirming. At 16 he’s whimpering, but it’s when you stop that he cries out.

“More,  _ please _ , ma’am.”

You hesitate.

“More?”

“Oh yes,  _ please _ . Make me feel it,  _ please _ .”

You rub at his bottom.

“Your punishment was 16. Anything extra is a reward—for taking it so well.”

“ _ PLEASE _ .”

“Ok, we’ll make it an even 30.”

You get to work again, alternate between each side, cheek then crease. At 20 he’s tense and panting, so you stop to tell him to relax. You wait for his breathing to even out and the tension to drain away before you start up again. When you reach 24 he screams, out, “Oh fuck, oh  _ yes _ !” even as his legs kick.

“Stay  _ still _ ,” you chastise.

“Yes, ma’am,” he says as he gasps.

You rub over his cheeks. “Now. Do you want me to draw out these last 6, or do you want them hard and fast?”

“Oh god,” whines Mary as he rubs his face into your comforter. “Hard and fast, please, ma’am. Don’t stop.”

“But if you need me to stop?”

“ _ PLEASE _ .”

You give him a light crack on his thigh and he flinches.

“If you don’t answer me, you’re not going to get 6 more.”

“Nickleback!”

“There now; that wasn’t so hard.” Mary whines. “Ok, here we go.”

You dole out the last hits hard and fast as promised, while Mary keens and squirms. You mean to rub out the sting and then gather him up, but he hastily scrambles onto the bed, rolling over onto his back. His dick is hard and flushed, tip shiny with precum.

“Oh please, Suey, please. Just like this, please?”

The spanking hasn’t left you unaffected—you’re definitely wet—and the sight of Mary trembling and begging (his makeup smudged and smeared) has your mouth watering.

“Only because you beg so nicely,” you say as you lean down over him and suck him into your mouth. You can tell he wasn’t expecting your mouth because he thrusts up into it—nearly gagging you—as he lets out an  _ Oh fuck _ . You press his hips down firmly, and he lets out a hiss, as you bob on him.

“Oh god,  _ harder _ . Press harder.”

You shift so you can press your weight down onto where you’re holding his hips.

“Oh jesus  _ fuck _ ,” says Mary as he tenses. 

You feel his cock harden, so you take a deep breath and swallow him whole. His cry chokes off in his throat as he arches off the bed, and then he’s screaming as you feel his dick kick and throb against your tongue. Once he relaxes down into the bed, you pop off and stroke him slowly with your hand. Mary’s chest is heaving and he has an arm over his eyes. 

When his breath slows, he whines and pushes your hand away before turning onto his side. You go to wrap him in your arms, but before you can pull him into you, he whimpers and squirms away. 

His ass. Right.

“Sorry, buddy,” you say as you shift over to the other side of him. Mary wastes no time glomming onto you and burying his head into your neck. His hands rove under your shirt and into your sleep pants, gripping and grasping hard at your ample flesh. It’s almost painful, but you allow it as you stroke through his product-stiff hair and murmur praise into it.

He finally settles, and you realize it’s because he’s nodded off. You carefully extract yourself, making sure to rest him on his stomach before folding your blanket over him. It’s only a quick trip to your kitchen area—you already set out the chocolates & ibuprofen from his coffin, so all you need to do is grab the ice wrap out of the freezer and the prepared glass of Pedialyte out of the fridge. It’s a balancing act, but you manage to bring all the items into the bedroom. Mary’s still out cold, so you arrange the glorious bounty on your night table. 

Well, if he’s still asleep, no reason you can’t take care of business …. You cast around until you see your vibrator poking out from under a pile of clothes.  _ Shit _ . You hope it still has juice.

Once it’s in your hands, you find—to your great relief—that there’s still power left. Your eyes flick over to Mary, but he’s still drooling into your comforter. The goal here is to be quick, so you perch on your clothes chair and press the head hard into your crotch. Despite your earlier arousal and the almost direct stimulation, you’re struggling to get there. The hairbrush is at the end of the bed, and you snatch it up. It gives you a thrill just to hold it, and you smack it lightly against your thigh imagining that it’s Mary’s ass. You do that a few more times, eyes closed as you bring up spanking Mary in your mind’s eye, and it’s enough to ramp you up and tip you over the edge.

You let out an involuntary grunt as you cum, and you let the vibrations take you through the aftershocks, your body twitching. Once you’re finished, you let out a contented sigh and switch off your vibrator. When you open your eyes, Mary is staring at you.

You flush. “Oh hey, buddy.”

His eyes flick to the hairbrush in your hand.

“That’s mine.”

You look down at it. “Of course,” you say as you offer it to Mary. An arm emerges from the burrito and he yanks the brush from your hand and back into the fold. You get up and place the toy on top of the clothes you smushed.

“I have some things for you, buddy. Do you think you can sit up?”

Mary goes to sit up, then hisses, and flops back down.

“Ok, we’re going to take care of that.”

You offer him the ibuprofen, but when he just stares at it, you direct him to stick out his tongue. You place the pills on it, then you carefully tip the liquid into Mary’s mouth. It’s a sloppy business—a third of the drink ends up down Mary’s shirt—but you get enough in for him to swallow the pills and slake his thirst. 

After some maneuvering, you get Mary on his stomach with just his ass exposed enough to lay the towel-covered ice wrap over his cheeks. He grunts, but otherwise doesn’t react. You climb onto the bed, arranging Mary so that his head is in your lap and you can hand feed him the chocolates. As he sucks on them, you lean back into the wall and massage his scalp.

You don’t even realize you’ve dozed off until you come to because Mary is kissing your hand.

“Oh. Sorry,” you say, yawning.

His head cranes to look up at you. “It’s fine. But can we move? You kinda smell like sex and it’s distracting.”

You roll your eyes, but begin to move out from under him.

“There’s Chinese if you want to eat.”

Mary makes a rumbling noise. “I could eat  _ you _ . You kinda deprived me of reciprocating.”

“I’m not a meal, Mary.”

He gives you a wolfish smile. “Aren’t you?”

“ _ Mary _ .”

“A light snack then?” he says as he crawls over the bed after you and presses his face back into your crotch.

“Mary!” you shriek as he nips at your pajama pants and growls.

“I’m having my dessert first,” he rumbles as he begins to yank down your pants.

You truly don’t need him to do anything, but then his warm tongues makes contact with your folds and he hums an  _ Mmm _ into you and

Thought leaves you as Mary’s tongue parts your lips and wiggles in to find your clit. He laps and licks at you, and you just melt into the bed. When he presses a finger into you, you moan loudly, and Mary begins to lap faster as his finger thrusts in and out of you. There’s no teasing, just a concentrated assault on your sensitive spots, and it’s not too long before you’re chanting out  _ Oh oh oh _ as you feel your orgasm approaching. Mary curls his finger to press at your G-spot, and it’s enough to tip you over.

A low  _ Uhn _ punches out of you as your orgasm hovers and you tense at the pooling build. Mary quickens his tongue, and your climax breaks, you moaning out in time to the waves pulsing through you. Once all the tension bleeds out of you, Mary withdrawals his finger—wiping it on the inside of your thigh—then he’s climbing over you, his cock clumsily poking into your cunt. You spread your legs further open as Mary reaches down to guide himself into you.

“So fucking  _ wet _ ,” he groans as he begins to pump into you. He leans down and curls over you, sucking at your neck and shoulder. “Your body is so fucking welcoming. Do you want my cock that much?”

“Oh fuck, Mary,” you moan. “Your hard fucking cock. Fuck me so good. Always want it filling me up.” You clench around him, and he growls, biting your clavicle hard.

“You better. You better fucking want it. Because I’m not going to stop fucking you. Not when your sweet cunt is so goddamned warm and tight.”

You turn your head and bite his earlobe. “You better remember how nice my cunt is. How,” you squeeze your walls around his cock, “ _ tight _ for you.”

“Oh  _ shit _ .”

Before Mary has the chance to do anything, you give a sharp slap to his ass. He cries out, seizing up, and then he thrusts hard and deep into you. He’s all but collapsed on you as he gives a few more abortive twitches into your hole. You can feel his hot breath as he pants into your skin, and—despite his softening cock—Mary doesn’t move off you.

You pet at him a little before saying, “Mare” as you wiggle under him.

He makes a disgruntled noise into your neck, but he carefully extracts himself from you so he doesn’t also roll onto his ass. He maneuvers off the bed and stands on wobbly legs. The hairbrush clatters after him, and he retrieves it from the floor.

“I think I probably do need to eat actual food.”

“Hey,” you say as you also roll off the bed, “do you really like the taste of me that much?”

He shrugs. “You taste like ‘girl’. Sweeter, I guess, when you’re all hot for me. It’s just—you taste like sex with you. I dunno. When you smell like that, I already know what you’re going to feel like around my cock. I guess it’s Pavlovian.” He grins. “And I’m just a dog hungry for it.”

You scrunch your face at him. “Ok, ok. It’s time to actually feed you. C’mon, rover.” You hold out your hand for the brush. “Do you want me to—”

“ _ No _ ,” he says, clutching it to him.

You drop your hand. “I was just going to put it in your drawer.”

He gives you a dubious look, then slowly hands it out to you.

“Don’t fucking use it again. It’s mine.”

You nod solemnly. “Of course, Mary. It’s only for you.”

After putting the hairbrush in his drawer, you head to the bathroom to pee and clean up a bit. When you emerge, Mary’s eating some lo mein out of a takeout container in your kitchen area in his t-shirt and boxers. You grab another container (it turns out to be the General Tso's), and shuffle to the couch.

Mary doesn’t move to join you.

“Are you just going to stand in the kitchen?”

“Ye **p** ,” he says.

“Why—”

He gives you a hard look.

“—oh.” A smile tugs at your lips, and you curl them into your mouth to hide it.

“Yeah. Don’t look so goddamned pleased with yourself.”

You throw up your hands. “You’re the one who wanted me to keep going!” 

“You still don’t have to be fucking smug about it.”

You mime locking your lips.

“Oh, and: you’re an asshole,” he says jabbing his chopsticks in your direction. “Slapping my ass when I was fucking you.”

You shrug, lips still tucked in, but the smile reaches your eyes. You thought it was pretty inspired.

The two of you eat in silence. Mary practically houses the lo mein before he finally comes over to the couch to steal bites of chicken from you, chopsticks clicking.

“Mare,  _ stop _ ,” you wine as you try to dodge him.

“You’re hogging all the good shit,” he says as his chopsticks try to dart into the holes in your defense.

“You just ate that whole thing of lo mein!” You try and twist away.

He clambers onto the couch, kneeling. “Whatever. You know General Tso's is worth more than noodles. Gimme.”

“Fuck off. You made your choice.”

You accidentally elbow him when he dives in like a seagull, and he falls backwards—hissing as his bottom makes contact with the couch.

“Aww, Mare,” you say as you bite back a giggle.

“It’s not funny,” he grumbles as he shifts to redistribute his weight.

You pat your lap. “Here. C’mon, lay down.”

Mary grumbles some more, but he wiggles around so he’s on his stomach, head in your lap.

“Let me just see …”

You gingerly pull the seat of his boxers down. His ass looks fine ( _ yeah it does _ ). It’s red and blotchy, but there’s no purpling. You smooth your hand around each cheek.

“When you’re done feeling smug about your handiwork, how ‘bout some chicken?”

You yank your hand away.

“I wasn’t …” (You were.)

He opens his mouth and points into it.

“Chicken.”

After pulling his boxers back up, you feed Mary some bites of chicken. He lets out a happy sigh.

“Now who’s smug?”

“Die mad,” he grouses.

You feed him a few more bites before finishing the rest yourself.

“Was that ok, though?” you ask as you lick your fingers.

“No, I could’ve eaten the whole thing.”

“The spanking, Mare.”

“Oh.” He seems to consider. “Um, it feels weird to say ‘yes,’ but: yeah.” He twists his head to look up at you. “I mean, maybe not all the time. It stings like a motherfucker—but … yeah.”

“Ok, good.”

“Did  _ you _ like it?”

You feel heat rise to your cheeks.

“Is it weird to say ‘yes’?”

Mary meets your eyes with a serious gaze.

“Absolutely,” he says, nodding.

Your heart drops, but then Mary bursts out laughing. You make a mean lemon face at him and flick his ear.

“Ow, fuck,” he cries out, but it’s in between chuckles.

“You’re a dick. I’m sorry I gave you my chicken.”

He brings his hand up to his mouth. “I mean, I could give it back …”

“Next time I’m going to make you sit on your sore rump,” you grump.

What you don’t expect is for Mary to gulp and his eyes to dilate.

Oh. Oh  _ ho ho _ .

You give him a vulpine smile.

“Next time I’m going to make you sit on your sore rump.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did I write the previous .5K chapter bc of a throwaway line in this one? Why yes, yes I did.


	7. Intimacy Issues

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This isn't really a new chapter so much as it's a [_really self-indulgent_] poetry prose of Suey's inner feelings. And doesn't really contribute to the plot. I don't know. I was kinda in a mood and the characters are fighting me on the next plot point, so I wrote this instead.
> 
> It's a **kinda of dark** metaphor for her struggles with the type of emotional intimacy Mary is asking of her and his blindness to it, but this is a warning that the sex is really rough and can be interpreted 🚨**as dubcon**🚨.
> 
> ###  **Skipping this won't impact the narrative at all if you think the content would upset you.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ⚠️ Last warning of rough sex and dubcon.

He’s already inside you when you wake up.

The squeezing of his arms tight around you.

His band tee covers you, but.

He's pulling down the at the collar to sink blunt teeth into your shoulder and rucking up the hem to press the warm skin of his chest against your back.

The panting of his breath is loud in your ear as his lips move up your neck to mouth at your shell.

When grasping you to him isn’t close enough, he rolls you onto your stomach so he can press you flat.

He shoves down deep inside you, as if thrusting hard enough could grant him permanent residence.

His sucks at the nape of your neck, and then he worries your skin in his teeth, biting

biting

biting

until the sharp pain of broken flesh hits, and you scream out—

—but his hand pushes you down, muffling you.

_Quiet_. _Shh_.

His warm tongue licking at your bloody laceration.

Tears running down your face, reflexive.

Cathartic. 

You don’t tell him it’s too much.

Face down, you keen into your pillow—neck throbbing.

He doesn’t stop fucking you.

You don't ask him to stop, don’t, don’t, don’t …

His forehead presses into you, and the hot of his breath falls heavy on your pulsating wound.

One to add to the collection in their various stages of healing.

Hands, your hands, clutch the sheets in a white knuckled grip.

Hands, his, run up your arms and pry your fingers loose—two puzzle pieces interlocking together.

Then he’s in the depths of you, insistent, and hitting you where it hurts.

You keen again but, _shh SHH_—

And then he’s buried deep, the warmth of him spreading out in a gentle wave inside you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again I see this metaphor as Suey's inability to convey her reservations. They have rough sex all the time and Mary would never knowingly do anything without her consent. Mary just wants to <strike>love</strike> be close to his girlfriend.


	8. It Was a Day Out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The misadventures of Suey and Mary on a lovely fall day. Are they still a hot mess? FIND OUT

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi yes. This chapter gave me a lot of trouble and went through a lot of rewrites. Be kind.

It’s one of those rare weekdays where both you and Mary are free of your obligations. A successful gig the night before has the band taking the day off from practice, and an industry conference has the firm you’re working for offline. It’s a crisp Fall day where you can smell both the sunshine and the decaying leaves in the air, where you can almost be tricked into getting away with a t-shirt until you walk into the shade.

* * *

You knew he had a big gig, so you weren’t expecting to see him until late afternoon—if at all—so when you’d startled awake from him banging your front door open, his presence was a surprise. You’d barely even comprehended the first slam before Mary was bursting into your bedroom like people had to see it from the back row.

“It’s a beautiful fucking day and I’m here to cartoon bird you. Get up!”

You blink at him and say, “You’re a monster. I’m breaking up with you,” then bury your head under your pillow. You’re surprised when your covers are yanked off, and you yelp, grabbing after them way too late—you definitely aren’t wearing clothes.

“_ Oh _ … what do we have here?”

You try to get your pillow over you, but Mary is too fast—crawling over you and effectively pinning you down. The leather of his jacket quickly warms to your skin, but his pins and zippers bite into your skin.

Mary touches his nose to yours. “Hi.”

“Hi,” you say back. 

When he doesn’t move, you say, “Can I get dressed now?”

“Hmm,” he hums as he pretends to survey the situation. “I kinda like you as you are. Naked. At my mercy. Feels almost a _ crime _ not to take advantage of it.”

You wriggle. “I thought you wanted to go out.”

He grins at you. “I’m flexible.” He sits up so he can reach behind him, and you’d suddenly feel his fingers searching for your slit.

“Mary!” you yelp as you jerk under him.

When he finally slips in a finger, he finds you dry, and he makes an exaggerated gasp.

“Well, we can’t have that, now can we?”

“You’re incorrigible.”

He gives a vulgar thrust of his hips and says, “I know what gets you wet,” before kneeing up your body until his crotch is in your face. “Take me out.”

You fumble with his belt and zipper before slipping your hand into the slit of his boxers. Mary’s cock is half hard—hot to the touch—and he moans as you wrap your hand around him. By the time you get him out of his pants, he’s almost fully erect. You give him a few loose strokes, and his head rolls back before he says, “Suck me.”

Though the angle is awkward, you suck him into your mouth, twirling your tongue around the tip while simultaneously stroking his shaft.

“Yeah. Just like that.”

You flick your eyes up to him; his eyes are glazed eyes and he’s biting his bottom lip.

“Oh, fuck—I love it when you look at me.”

You continue to suck him as best you can—casting your eyes up at him whenever you remember—as Mary rocks his hips in time. When you press your tongue into his sweet spot, he groans, then leans forward to settle his arms on either side of you. He starts fucking into your mouth, and you let your hand fall away, hooking your lips over your teeth and pressing the flat of your tongue into the underside of his cock. He grunts in approval as he takes his pleasure from your mouth.

When you feel his dick throb, he slows, then stops.

“Fuck,” he pants. “I can’t decide if I’d rather cum down your throat or in your cunt.”

He slowly rocks into your mouth, letting out little _ Mmms _ as he rubs against your tongue. You take a deep breath and hum around him, causing Mary to moan hard. He growls and starts fucking your mouth faster.

“You want me to fuck your face then? Shove my cock down your throat? Be careful what you wish for, little girl.”

You hum again, and he just grunts as he tries to stick his dick as far into you as possible. Repeatedly. When his hips start to stutter, you dig your teeth-wrapped lips into him harder. He gives a choked off cry—and you briefly taste the salt of his cum—before he pulls out to shoot the rest on your tits, eyes fixed and tongue peeking out. Once he slows, you curl forward—mouth open—and he rubs his cockhead over your lips and tongue as he softens.

Finished, he rolls off you, reaching for the travel pack of tissues you used to carry around in your purse before it seemed to find permanent residence on your night table. He pulls out a few to hand to you, then tucks himself back into his jeans.

As you wipe at yourself, you say archly, “I thought the point was to cum down my throat?”

May turns on his side, propping himself up on his one arm as the other reaches out to thumb at a nipple.

“Most girls really appreciate it when their boyfriends give them a pearl necklace.”

You just narrow your eyes at him before shoving the wadded tissues into his face. He lets out an _ Ack _ as he hastens to grab them away. While he’s distracted, you take the opportunity to swing your leg over his hips to straddle him. His gaze meets yours, and you ruck up his shirt so that you can smear your slick on his concave stomach—having his cock in your mouth _ has _ made you soft and wet.

“Shall I make a mess of _ you _ now?”

When he just blinks at you, you work your way up his torso, carefully maneuvering around the sharp points of his pins.

“I’m going to grease your chin.”

As you press the folds of your cunt to his mouth, Mary’s arms come up behind you to push you into him. His eyes immediately close as he parts his own lips to worm his tongue into yours. You ride his face, grinding down when you want more pressure and rocking against him when you want more movement—the whisper of slight stubble scratching against your sensitive skin. The closer you get, the faster you rock, and the more your thighs begin to tremble at the strain.

Without warning, Mary throws you off—but then he’s right there again, grabbing your thighs and pulling you to the edge of the bed. His mouth suctions back onto you, his tongue lapping at your now-throbbing clit, as he inserts two fingers into you.

You relax into the bed and moan out loudly at the dual sensation—and that’s before he starts tapping at your G-spot. You let Mary take over, losing yourself in the pleasure while noisily conveying your approval. Soon you’re close—clutching at your sheets like a lifeline—and Mary speeds up his ministrations. Your climax builds up slow and sweet—and you know you're going to get there even as you tense, back locking and breath catching.

Mary feels your tells, and he starts flicking at your engorged nub in a quickened pace. When you cum—sparks bursting behind your eyes—you clamp your thighs on his head and buck up, Mary doing his best to follow.

Coming down, you let your limbs sprawl out and open, half expecting Mary to use the opportunity to fuck you. (You hope he’ll let you take a nap while he does.) But he just wipes off his lips and chin with the inside of his collar, smearing his already-ruined white face further. He crawls over you again, blanketing you with his body, and sighs.

“I could probably fuck you right now. If you wanted.”

“Nap.”

“K.”

You grope for an edge of a sheet or blanket, but—in the end—Mary’s the one to throw the covers over you both. When you awaken 30min later, it’s because one arm is half asleep and there are dull aches where Mary’s sharp edges had been pressing into you. You push at him with your feet, and when Mary just grumbles, you kick harder.

“Jesus, _ what _? I thought you wanted to sleep.”

You squirm. “_ Uncomfortable _.”

“Pain in my fucking ass,” he mumbles, but instead of just rolling off you, he keeps going, yanking the covers off in such a way that you’re suddenly a mass of limbs on the floor.

As you sputter, he just laughs and says, “Oh good! You’re up!”

You clamber to your feet trying not to stumble in your sheets, and Mary breezes past, slapping you on the ass.

"C’mon, baby doll—let’s go get some vitamin D.”

“Didn’t you just give me that, Mare?”

He looks at you over his shoulder. “You’re stealing my jokes, and I don’t appreciate it.”

You end up pulling on one of his XL graphic tees—off the hook in your bathroom—and a pair of electric-blue fleece tights. At Mary’s grumbling, you yank on your thigh-length, lace leggings over them.

The two of you playfully fight for mirror space as you put on your Day Face and Mary does his best to repair his. Despite him chomping at the bit like an overeager puppy to get out the door, he still finds time to sidle up behind you to squeeze your curves through the t-shirt. (_ “What? I just wanted to see if you felt as good as you looked.” _)

* * *

You try not to feel like a Rock Star as you walk down the street—you in your worn, retro-jacket you found in dollar-a-pound & cat sunglasses, Mary in his leather jacket and various studded belts—but for better or worse, you’re getting a lot of attention.

Or maybe that’s because _ Mary _ is kind of a rock star.

Whatever.

You’re cute as fuck.

Mary mostly wants to trawl the record stores and argue with pawnbrokers over the price of guitars—which he definitely needed to wake your ass up at the crack of before noon to do—but you still find plenty of merch to engage with.

At one pawn shop you trill out a bastardized version of _ Toccata and Fugue in D Minor _ on a keyboard, jumping 5ft in the air when Mary appears from nowhere.

“You play?”

You yank your hands away from the instrument.

“No,” is your knee-jerk response, but then you lightly run your hand over the keys. “I mean, not anymore.” You flick the power switch off.

You make your way out of the shop, and you can _ feel _ Mary’s restrained interest. You sigh heavily.

“I didn’t say anything!” he says, hands up placatingly.

“You were thinking it really loudly, though.”

He shrugs, and the two of you walk in silence for a beat before you run your arm through his.

“Suzuki Method. It was supposed to help my language skills. Enjoying it was an unexpected consequence.”

Mary angles his head to squint at you.

“Consequence?”

“When my father was in a mood, he’d pry the black keys off. I got very good with wood glue.” You pause. “Apparently they destroyed it. At least, they sent me a box filled with broken keys.”

Mary stops walking, causing you to jolt to a stop as well.

“What. The. Fuck.”

“Yep,” you shrug. “They'd rather destroy something than give it away.”

You slip your arm free so you can continue on down the sidewalk, and Mary follows until you’re both walking side by side again. When you don’t continue speaking, he looks at you for a moment.

“So you know Mum raised me.”

“Yeah,” you say as you take his hand and run your thumb over the ring of hers he wears. He interlocks your fingers before mashing both your hands into his pocket.

“Don’t know much about dad, though. I barely remember him. He has a string of families, apparently. I’ve got all these half siblings strewn about the country. But they don’t seem real, you know? Just names and addresses scrawled across index cards and on the back or receipts. I guess I could reach out. But.”

He lets the thought hang.

“You don’t have to explain to me, Mare.”

“Thanks.”

The two of you walk another block before Mary pulls you into a store that’s half comics, half records. You make to tell him that you’ll be by the graphic novels, but he’s already making a beeline toward his intended goal and waving you off.

You’re just finishing browsing the rickety wireframe housing the zines, when you hear Mary exclaim, “Hey, dude! It’s been forever!”

“Mary, my dude.” Comes another voice. “I just got back! Awesome show last night, by the way! But where’d you run off to? The guys were frustratingly unhelpful.”

You meander around the corner just in time to see Mary embrace and back slap a blonde-haired dude in the standard uniform of skinny jeans and leather jacket. Mary leans back a little.

“Believe it or not I’m not this beautimous on my own. Gotta get my vitamin Zzz.”

The guy narrows his eyes and lets go, wrinkling his nose.

“Sleep, huh? Is that why you smell like pussy?”

You sidle over.

“He smells like pussy because I sat on his face this morning,” you say with a sly smile.

The guy scrunches his face at you as Mary jerks in surprise to find you right there.

“You letting the groupies follow you home now, Goore?”

You tense as your face flushes.

Mary quickly slings his arm around your shoulders, holding you in place. “This is my girlfriend,” he says lowly.

“No shit,” the guy says. His face contorts through a journey you can’t interpret. His eyes flick back to Mary. “Really?”

“Yeah. Really,” says Mary.

The guy scrutinizes you closer, and you’re suddenly feeling less like a rock star and more like a conquest in last night’s clothes; you shift uneasily.

“You gotta problem, Aaron?” says Mary.

“Just … since when do you have a fucking girlfriend?”

You say _ Three months _ just as Mary says, “You haven’t been around in a while.”

Mary turns to you. “I thought it was four?”

“Since that night in August?”

“I was counting that night at Sixes & Sevens in June.”

“Where?”

“Mickey’s place.”

You scrunch your nose at him.

“You want to count that?”

“Why not?”

You can’t think of a rebuttal, so you raise your hands. 

“You know what? I just remembered I don’t care.” You give him jazz hands. “Four months it is”

“You’re a bitch.”

You beam at him. “Thanks!”

“No distractions, huh,” mumbles Aaron.

Remember Aaron?

The two of you turn back to him. He’s hunched into himself a little, hands crammed into his pockets.

“Suey isn’t a distraction,” says Mary.

Aaron gives you an exaggerated once over. 

“Yeah, I can see that.

Heat quickens in your veins, and you slip in front of Mary to stand arms akimbo.

“Ok, that’s enough. I think it’s time for you to drive through.”

“Suey,” sighs Mary as Aaron half laughs, half snorts.

“Or what?”

“Or I’ll do something you won’t like.”

He does laugh then.

“I’d listen to her,” rumbles Mary, even as you feel his hands come to rest on your arms.

“Yeah? I’d like to see you try.”

You feel Mary clamp down on your arms, but you don’t need mobility to hock your saliva and spit it in Aaron’s face. He freezes in shock as Mary hisses,_ Jesus Christ, Suey _. Aaron wipes his face and looks at you disbelievingly. You stare hard at him with your eyes. Then he just starts laughing—it’s not a kind laugh.

“Oh my god, Mary. You’re dating _ yourself _.”

“Fuck off already” you say.

“Wow dude, good luck that. She’s a feral little thing, isn’t she?”

“You _ were _ being a massive dick,” says Mary.

“See you around, Goore,” says Aaron as he stalks out of the store.

Mary’s eyes follow him—and your gut clenches for a second when you think Mary might leave you and run after him—but he makes no movement towards the door. He does look down at you, frowning.

“You’re a fucking menace, you know that? Try not to piss off all my friends, ok?”

You shrug. “Are you mad?”

He rubs your arms. “It’s not like I wasn’t five seconds away from doing something if he insulted you one more time. But Christ, Suey. You’re gonna get stabbed one day.”

“Whatever.”

“C’mon,” he says as he puts his arm around your shoulders again.

The two of you leave—whatever Mary came in for long forgotten—and amble down the sidewalk in the early-afternoon sun.

“Was it serious?” you ask after a while.

Mary stops. “Get sliced with a broken bottle? No, just a few stitches.”

“Wait—_ what _?!”

“What?”

“I was talking about Aaron, but can we rewind to you getting stabbed with broken glass?!”

Mary shrugs. “Typical drunk meathead saying some shit. Turned a fist fight into a shitshow.” 

He pulls up his shirt and points to the raised crescent above his hip, the one you often trace with your tongue. You trace it now with your finger before he lowers his shirt again.

“Jesus, Mary.” You wrap your arms around him. “Don’t go getting stupid like that again, ok?”

He returns your embrace, huffing out a laugh. “I won’t if you won’t, champ.”

“Yeah yeah, fine. Ok.” You slip out of his arms and jab a finger at him. “But you’re changing the subject.”

“Aaron?”

“_ Yes. _”

Mary presses the heel of his hands into his eye sockets. He removes his hands, sees the black on them, rubs them on his jeans, and tips his head back to look up at the sky.

“I like Aaron. He’s a good dude.” 

“Ok. But?”

His head tips down.

“He hasn’t been around because he’s been following another band. That’s what he does. He gloms onto bands. We all had some good times with him … but for him it’s all about status. He fixated on me the second he realized I write the songs.”

“You rebuffed him.”

“Well …”

“Oh no …”

Mary shrugs. “He was a good time.”

“Mary, you cad!”

Mary scowls at you.

“Can we just fucking drop it?”

“Oh shit—he’s not going to sue you for palimony or anything is he?”

“I said fucking stop.”

“Yeah, ok,” you say as you give his arm a kiss.

The two of you continue on, content to fog up display glasses while window shopping and playing “what if” until Mary feels you hesitate in front of an ice cream shoppe.

“You want?”

You give him a careful shrug.

“Maybe.”

He considers you, before sighing.

“All right, c’mon … but take your lactaid this time—you’re a bitch to deal with when it goes right through you.”

“Don’t be gross.”

“I won’t be gross if you won’t be gross first.”

He orders you both cones. When you see him scrounging for change in his pockets, you try to pay, but he just elbows away. 

“I can buy you an ice cream cone.”

You lean into him. “Of course you can, Mare bear—I was just trying to be efficient.” You stick a hand in his back pocket and squeeze his ass. “I can help search too.”

He makes a _ tetch _ noise at you and waves you outside. You lightly bite his bicep before trouncing out of the store and finding a bench in the park across the street. In the direct sunlight it’s quite warm, and you shrug out of your coat as you sprawl over the bench. You imagine that you’re a lizard, soaking up the heat to store for later.

You must doze off a little, because suddenly Mary is beside and jostling you.

“Fuck. Take your ice cream before it melts down my hand.”

You sit up and grab the melting item from him. When you give his sticky fingers a lap, he gives you an exasperated look.

“_ Tease _.”

You shrug. “Just helping.”

“Mmm.”

The two of you eat your cones while arguing about the subjectivity of art and authorial intent vs death of the author as applied to all creators.

“Ok,” you say, “but—can’t you agree that once you put art there in the world it’s subject to the observer effect? Once your audience consumes it, it intrinsically changes?”

Mary huffs. “That’s all well and good for fine art and Hawthorne—but as a songwriter—I have to say my meaning is my meaning. My subtext is my subtext. I’m loath to think someone out there could be interpreting my lyrics about dismantling the construct of social norms to actually be a call to _ maintain _ them!”

“You don’t think Hawthorne would be just as distressed to find his symbolism about morality within the human psyche misinterpreted as misogynistic theory? But he can’t stop it once it’s out there. The creator basically creates a Schrödinger's cat of intention! Until their audience consumes it, the art is both what the creator intended and what the audience interprets. I’d absolutely say the same as lyrical intention!”

Mary scoffs. He’s gearing up for a rebuttal when he falters, his attention suddenly elsewhere. He turns his head, and you follow his line of sight: there’s a little boy, standing not too far from your park bench, alone and wide-eyed. As you push your sunglasses onto your head, Mary slips off the bench and squats by the boy.

“Well. Hello, little man. I’m Mary.”

He holds out his hand, but the boy just stares at him.

“Where’s your mommy?”

The little boy looks around, lip trembling.

“Hey, it’s cool. We’ll find her. What’s your name, dude?”

“Jake,” says the small voice.

“Nice to meet you, Jake.”

Jake points at Mary’s face.

“You’re Halloween,” he says.

“That’s right,” says Mary. “I like to play make believe. Do you like to play make believe?”

Jake’s eyes brighten and he nod vigorously. Mary nods with him.

“That’s so cool, Jake. Do you want to play ‘investigators’?”

Jake nods.

“Awesome. Now, where was the last place you saw your mom? Take a good look around, ok?”

The boy’s head swivels as he looks around the park. He considers before pointing toward the joggers area.

“Ok, Jake. Let’s go investigate, all right? Hold my hand, ok?”

You shift. “Should I…?”

“I’ll be right back, Suey.”

Jake focuses his eyes on you, then flick back up to Mary, questioning.

“That’s my girlfriend.”

“Ew,” says Jake.

You make an exaggerated face as Mary chuckles.

“Yeah, she’s pretty gross. But,” he says in a stage whisper, “don’t tell her I said that.”

Jake shakes his head, and the two of them take off across the grass, hand in hand. Halfway there a woman in bright workout gear comes sprinting across the gap. You watch, frowning, as the woman points and yells at Mary, grabbing her son to her and shielding him. Mary puts his hands up and backs away, even as the woman jabs at the air between them. The woman hurries herself and Jake away. When Jake turns around to wave, Mary waves back, but it’s cut short when his mom wrenches his hand down and ushers him out of the park and away. You watch as Mary stands there for a few more seconds, before he turns and starts his way back to you.

When he gets back to the bench, you reach for his hand.

“Mare—”

“Let’s just go,” he says as he grabs up his jacket from the bench.

You scramble after him. He has his hands shoved into his pockets, and you don’t try to thread your arm through his. You follow him out of the park, hurrying to keep up as he strides down the sidewalk. After a while you say,

“You’re good with kids.”

He spins around on you.

“And that’s such a fucking surprise is it? Scary Mary Goore isn’t a total dick?”

“N-no … I just—”

“Wearing makeup and being in a band means I can’t like kids?”

“I didn’t—it just that not being good with kids myself—”

“Yeah, well. You’re a little self-absorbed.”

You stop walking. “Wow. Ok.”

Mary looks over his shoulder. “See? Here’s where you make this all about yourself.”

You know he’s not angry with you. You _ know _. But you still can’t stop yourself from digging a 5 dollar bill out of your pocket and throwing it at him.

“For the fucking ice cream.”

You turn and try not to stomp away. If he wants to be in a snit, that’s on him. You don’t need to subject yourself to it. And you don’t need to be beholden to him in any way. Mary and his fucking moods.

You’re about a block away when Mary’s voice next to you startles you out of your funk.

“Don’t fucking throw money at me.”

Mary crowds into your space and tries to press the $5 back into your hand, even as you pull away.

“No. I don’t want to owe you anything.

Mary catches your arm. “Why would you owe me anything.”

You shake free and snarl, “Tell me I’m wrong, then! Tell me some part of you wasn’t thinking how dare I be such a bitch and after you bought me ice cream too. Look me in the face and tell me that!” 

Mary falters. It’s just for a second. Just a second, but it’s enough. You jab at him again.

“That woman was a bitch—and I hate it for you—but I’m not your fucking punching bag, Mary. I’ll walk away every time.”

Mary seems to crumple in on himself. You exhale and pinch the bridge of your nose.

“I don’t want to fight with you, Mare. But I won’t take your bullshit. Now, c’mere.”

You hold out your arms—Mary looking at you as if this might be some trick—but then he hunches over and lets you enfold him in your arms. You rock him a little, the way he tries to do to you.

“You suck at this shit.”

“I know.” You rock him a bit more before stopping. “I’m sorry I threw money at you. I know you’re not mad at me.”

You curl your hand into his to take it back, but he yanks it away from you,

“Nuh-uh,” he says as he moves away and crosses his arms. “I’m keeping this as ‘asshole tax’ as you like to say.”

You gape at him as he tries hard not to crack a smile. 

“Whatever. Let’s go back to my place. It’s getting chilly and I’m hungry.”

“You just had ice cream.”

“That’s a completely different stomach.”

“That sounds legit for sure.”

You thrust out your hand, and he’s quick to take it, stuffing both yours and his back into his pocket.

After walking in silence for a while you say, “Children scare me.”

Mary glances over at you. “Scare you?”

“Yeah. They’re just so. Impressionable. And fragile. And they’re like little psychopaths you have to be nice to.”

“I think they’re fun. They give zero fucks about what they say—sometimes it’s weird-ass shit and other times it’s like they cut right through the bullshit. They love getting dirty and the world hasn’t crushed their sense of whimsy yet. I’ll take playing in the creek with them over a band meeting any day.”

“That’s so on brand Mary. I bet you caught frogs as a tot, didn’t you?”

He gives you a mock glare. “You don’t know my life.”

“I bet you can’t—” You cut yourself off before you can finish with _ wait to play with your own _.

“I can’t what?”

“Nothing.”

“No, what?”

“_ Nothing _.”

Mary stops. “Well, now I _ know _ it’s something.”

Your hand slips out of his grasp, and you wrap your arms around yourself.

“I—you just. I didn’t think about you thinking about kids.” 

He squints at you. “Thinking about kids?”

You make a curt gesture. “_ Having _ them.”

The two of you stare at each other.

“Because you …” Mary starts.

“Because I?”

“… want them?”

“Do _ you _?”

“I asked you first.”

“I implied it first.”

Mary’s eyes are boring into yours, and your heart is beating in your ears.

“Fuck,” he says. “I don’t wanna break up.” He takes your hands in his.

“Should we not say?”

“No, we gotta.”

You realize that you’re trembling.

“Shit, Mare.”

Mary pulls you into him.

“Ok, fuck. I’ll say it.” He takes a deep breath. “Never. I never want kids.”

Wait.

You must not have heard him right.

You pull away from him, furrowing your eyebrows.. “You … never want children?”

Mary’s face contorts. “I’m so sorry—”

You slap his chest and burst into relieved laughter.

“Oh thank _ god _.”

He’s just looking at you blankly.

“Oh my god, Mare. That whole speech? I thought _ you _ wanted kids!”

“You don’t…?

“Jesus, no. I can barely take care of myself.”

“But one day …”

You just shake your head. “Everything’s hard and exhausting all the time. If it ever gets better, I don’t want to dive back in.”

Mary just shakes his head. 

“Fuck. I miss smoking sometimes. Let’s go.”

“What about you?” you ask as you thread your arm through his.

He shrugs. “I’ll be the cool uncle til the cows come home, but I’m fucking selfish. I want to see the world, and sleep in on my days off, and fuck when I want to.

“A lot of people do all those things.”

“A lot of those people have means.” 

* * *

You’re on your couch, still in Mary’s oversized shirt and a pair of boy shorts, laying on your stomach as you flip through one of those books that’s supposed to make you a better person. Your crossed calves rest in Mary’s lap (he’s similarly in his t-shirt and boxer briefs), and one of his hands long ago snuck up under your shorts and now rests cupping your one ass cheek. He flips through your cable and complains that there’s nothing on. 

“Seriously, though. Why do you even have cable? I’m the only one who watches it.”

You put your finger in the book to mark your place as you look over your shoulder.

“Because it’s cheaper.”

He squints at you.

“Having cable is cheaper?”

You roll over. His hand just glides to your thigh.

“Having cable is cheaper with high-speed internet—which I need in order to work from home—than having basic cable.”

“Really?”

“Yep. It’s good for you and your WWE addition, though.”

“Hmm.”

His hand kneads at your thigh, but his gaze is far away.

“What?”

He gives you a measured look.

“Ok. Look. I don’t actually know what it is you do.”

“You … don’t?”

“In my defense every time I bring it up, you just make a snoring noise and change the subject.”

“Well it is.”

He gives you a playful shake.

“OH MY GOD JUST TELL ME WHAT YOU DO.”

Laughing, you push him away, but set your book on the coffee table so you can climb into his lap.

Mary settles his hands on your hips as he looks up at you.

“If you think you can distract me with sex—you’re right.”

You wind your arms around his neck even as his hands, warm and guitar calloused, slip under your shirt and up your sides.

“You’re going to be sorry you asked.”

“Asked what?” says Mary as his hands cup your breasts, his eyes now trained on the movement under the shirt.

You lean forward to kiss at his jaw, then the hinge, and then to press your lips to his tragus, tonguing at his piercing.

“I’m a contract paralegal,” you whisper seductively into his ear.

Mary stills, his hands receding.

“You … what?”

You shift back up.

“Yeah. It’s not exciting or glamorous.”

Mary’s brows furrow.

“Or very punk rock at all.”

“I’ve got a lot of debt. And you eat a lot.”

“What debt?”

You sigh and rest your head into his shoulder.

“Look, can we move on? You asked what I do, and now you know.”

His hands run up and down you again.

“K.”

You lean forward to kiss him, and he accepts you readily. His hands slide under your clothes—one under the shirt, the other under the shorts. Mouth sliding across your cheek, he sucks at your neck, and you slip your hands into his hair. His teeth scrape down your neck and bare down at the juncture where it meets your shoulder.

“What about after?” he murmurs into your shoulder

“Mmm, I expect you to fuck me into oblivion. No need for after.”

Mary pulls his head back, even as his fingers knead and trail across your sensitive skin. 

“No, after your debt. You can’t want this—” he jerks his head at your apartment, “forever.”

Sighing, you slide your hands down and around his neck before leaning back.

“I don’t know, Mare. Of course I want something better—but I have no idea what that looks like. Like, am I going to turn 30 and suddenly want a big house in the suburbs? Am I going to decide to move to Tibet and live in a yurt? Owning my own place sounds nice—no sketchy slumlord. Another bedroom perhaps? A place for a meat fridge? Those are my dreams. But, a lot can change in 5 years. I could ask the same of you. You live with 4 other guys in a 2 bedroom and take turns on the couch. Mickey pays you in slightly better than minimum wage and trade.”

Mary leans back into the couch, taking his hands with him.

“Christ, I hope in 2 years I don’t wanna live in a yurt. But a house, yeah. Someplace nice for me and … whoever.” His one hand lands on your thigh. “I’m gonna have my name up in lights, Suey. And then I’ll buy you _ all _the groceries—and enough meat to fill your locker.”

Mary’s eyes are round and bright. You wiggle on his lap.

“Your meat can fill my locker right now.”

His hand grips your thigh hard.

“You’re the literal worst.”

“What?” you pout. “I’m just saying if you wanted to make me happy _ now _ … no stardom needed! Just that thick cock of yours.”

“Temptress,” he says, but he’s rolling his hips up into you, his bulge forming.

The two of you grind into each other for a bit, kissing hard. The boy shorts are beginning to stick to you, and you contort yourself trying to peel them off, Mary’s hands appearing to help you out of them. Once you’re free, your hand dives into the slit in Mary’s boxers, and he moans as you squeeze his dick. You pull it free, before hastily sinking down onto it.

“_ Shit _,” gasps Mary, his head thrown back and his eyes shut.

You put your hands on his shoulders for leverage and squirm around until his cock is hitting your sweet spot. You don’t so much bounce on his cock as you swivel your hips and grind down into his pubic curls. Mary’s hands find your hips so he can guide you up and down on him. On every down stroke you feel that burst of pleasure as his cockhead hits your G-spot, and you whine.

“Oh fuck, Suey. Yeah, use my cock. Cum on me.”

“Shut up and I fucking will.”

Even as you grind down harder into him, your hand shoots out to cover his mouth. Mary’s eyes widen before rolling back, and you lick your lips. You maneuver your hand so that your palm is pressed against his mouth and then you squeeze his nose shut with his fingers. His hands drop away from you, and his thrusts—already shallow—recede to small twitches. You speed up, trying to lift up as much as you can without popping off before slamming back down into his lap, his thighs wet with your slick.

When Mary starts to flail, you let up just enough for him to gasp in a breath or two before you clamp down again. Fucking him quickly becomes more about watching him thrash and jerk under you than getting off yourself—though the ember of your arousal is there, simmering.

It’s only once your thigh muscles start to protest that you urge Mary toward his final climax, clenching around him as you keep the seal of your hand tight. He started sweating a while ago, and his face has turned red at the strain. His hands start scrabbling at your waist, but he doesn’t tap out. You clench again, and he suddenly arches off the couch. 

You remove your hand in time for him to suck in a lungful of air, only to start screaming it out again, his grip on your waist forcing you down as his hips thrust up hard. As he’s emptying into you, lost in his climax, you bring your hand down to swipe at your clit, letting the excitement of his orgasm usher in your own. It’s a soft thing—more of a gentle wave to shore than the crash of a tidal—but you still spasm hard enough that Mary whines at the sudden clench around his sensitive and softening cock, and he jerks under you.

On shaky legs, you roll off him to the side, and his hands fly down to cup his dick. As his chest continues to heave, you look about for your underpants, balling them up and pressing them to your cunt so his cum doesn’t leak on the couch. His arm reaches out, his hand fumbling artlessly to pet at you.

“Oh fuck,” he says. He turns his sweaty head to cast hooded eyes at you.

Grinning at him, you pat at his thigh before extracting yourself from the couch. You teeter dangerously on your exerted muscles, and Mary shoots out a hand to steady you.

“Do you want to join me in the shower,” you ask, “or …?”

“Yeah, ok. But I’ll have to leave soon. Mickey wants me to open.”

He shifts off the couch into a stretch, his soft cock still out and bouncing a little. You reach your hand down to cover it and he flinches away.

“_ Sensitive. _”

“Sorry, Mare bear,” you say around a smile.

“Mmm.”

The two of you make your way the five or so steps to your bathroom.

“Are you going to be by later?”

Mary is stripping out of his clothes as you fiddle with the shower.

“No—and probably not all weekend either. Band stuff. We wanna talk about how to piggyback off this gig.” He reaches out a hand to thumb at your cheek. “Is that ok?”

You roll your eyes and remove his hand. 

“Jesus, Mary. I think I’ll survive.”

He grasps your jaw.

“You could miss me a little.”

You slide off the tub onto your knees and clutch at his leg.

“OH MY GOD, MARY. DON’T LEAVE ME.”

“Ok. All right.”

You nuzzle into his shapely thigh.

“What will I ever do without you?!”

“Ok, enough.”

Your press your face into him.

“How will I ever survive this separation?”

He starts to shake his leg to try and dislodge you.

“You think you’re funny, but you’re really not.”

You clutch harder.

“I’M NOT FUNNY I’M HEARTBROKEN AT THE LOSS OF MY BELOVED.”

“I will twist your nipples. _ Try me _.”

“Maaaarrrryyyy …”

He suddenly bends over—hands aiming for your tits—and you jerk away shrieking, “Fucking _ don’t _!”

He’s making clamping motions with his thumbs and forefingers as he continues to lunge at you.

“I _ will _ murder your face!” you scream as you scramble away from him.

Mary just grins wickedly at you. You escape into the shower, and he follows, crowding into you and giving you a few hard pinches on your bottom. Even as you slap at him, he clutches you to his wet chest and rubs himself over your tits.

“Let me soap these up and I’ll show you round 2 of what you’ll miss.”

You blink up at him as the shower spray coats both your lashes in a mist of droplets, and you run your hands down his back to grab at his bubble butt.

“I don’t want to miss you.”

Mary is silent for a while.

“It’s ok if you do. I won’t tell anyone.”

You squeeze his ass.

“Fine then. It’s possible I might miss your stupid face.”


	9. DIY

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Suey has to do Adult Things and Mary supports her—in his own way.

It’s been a trying day. The staffing agency had gotten you another contract, and the firm wanted to meet with you in person for some reason. Usually you’re just traded around with firms already familiar with you, and you can’t recall the last time you needed to be respectable. You tend to dye your hair when your mood changes, so the fading pink had needed to be taken care of.

* * *

“What do you care about their opinion?” Mary had said.

“This would be a little more money,” you’d shrugged. “I could get the good coffee and that mochi you like.”

“I can feed myself,” Mary had snapped.

“Then why don’t you?” you’d retorted.

He’d made a sour face at you when you’d said that.

In the end, Mary had suggested going black, and the two of you had had hair-dye day where you’d introduced Mary to the wonder of Vaseline to keep the dye off his skin.

“Look at you, making me all respectable,” he’d quipped as you’d slathered him up.

“Yes, heaven forbid you lose your coveted street cred because your ears and hairline aren’t mottled with black half the time.”

While most of the dye had ended up in your hair, a few errant blotches ended up staining the tiles and shower curtain (and, ok—the hand print on your upper arm when Mary forgot himself). Mary had called you a spoilsport when you’d refused to fuck in the shower ( _“What? It’s cool with all the black dye running down our bodies. Come on!”_ ). But in the end you were rather happy with how the fresh dye made your pixie bob look sleek and polished. 

Mary had scrutinized you in the mirror.

“I don’t like it. Makes you look like you’re trying too hard to be normal.”

You’d made a face at him. “Well, we can’t all work at Mickey’s and dress like Oscar the Grouch kicked us out of bed for eating crackers.”

Mary’d lightly bitten your neck. “I’m taking that as a compliment.” He’d then run his fingers through the shorter hair at the back of your head. “You’d look pretty hot with an undercut.”

“I know,” you’d said as you’d winked at him.

He’d snorted. “Modest too.”

You’d shrugged. “Getting an undercut was one of my many tiny actions of rebellion. As long as I kept my hair down, no one was the wiser.”

“They never caught you?” 

You’d sighed. “They did. Bitch of thing too—a picture of the school pep rally in the monthly newsletter for parents happened to catch me in the background.”

“Shit. What happened?”

“After all the screaming about boundaries and disrespect? TThey’d shaved my whole head.”

Mary’d stilled behind you.

“They … what?”

You’d leaned into the mirror, primping your hair unnecessarily.

“Buzzed all my hair off. Said I should never do things by half measures.”

Mary’d given you a look in the mirror, so you’d just smiled brightly at him.

“It’s just hair, Mary. Beside, all my schoolmates thought I was edgy as fuck.”

He’d turned you to face him.

“I really fucking hate your parents.”

You’d just patted him on the cheek. “Why waste the energy.”

“It’s just …” he’d leaned against the washer/drier as you began to clean up. “I had to be like, 15? And I came home from a friend’s house with badly bleached hair and a safety pin through my navel. My mum was in the kitchen, and I told her I wanted to be called Viscount Doom from now on. You know what she said?” 

(It was a rhetorical question.)

“She said, ‘That’s nice, dear—now take out the trash’.” He’d chuckled. “I was always her son first, you know?”

You’d slid a hand under his shirt to stick your thumb in his unadorned belly button.

“Did she make you take the safety pin out.”

Mary’d grinned at you. “Ah, well. The fucker got infected. Angry red blotches with pus and shit. I had to come clean to mum, and she bundled me off to urgent care. Whoops.”

You’d traced your thumb along his belly button, feeling now the obvious bump of scar tissue.

“So you were always fucking crusty.”

“Yeah, maybe,” he’d said as he’d crowded into you and dragged your hand down to his crotch.

* * *

The actual "chat” (they’d purposefully pussyfooted around calling it an interview) had gone fine; a girl about your age—probably an intern—had read a bunch of inane questions off a piece of paper in a monotone before a harried-looking woman came in and asked you questions surely your resume could have answered.

The firm itself, however, was a 30min walk from the bus, and about 90 more minutes including a bus transfer away from your apartment. You’d gotten up at 5am so you could leave by 6 so you weren’t late for your 9am appointment (_“Jesus. Who schedules interviews for the crack of dawn?”_ **“Sadists, that’s who.”**). So, of course, you’d gotten there an hour early and—with no coffee shop in sight—you’d sat on a concrete wall across the street that bordered a parking lot. 

Like a creep.

You’d then been asked to wait for another hour because “an earlier meeting was running late.” The receptionist had at least taken pity on you and brought you a steaming cup of Dunks and a chocolate doughnut.

It was noon by the time you made it out of there—which meant that there was no way you were making the 12:25pm bus. Which meant you didn’t make the 1:33pm transfer, and you had to cool your jets in a fast casual restaurant for 45min. The next bus had never shown. When you finally made it onto the transfer bus, you’d dozed off and had woken up several stops past your destination; you’d opted to just walk back to your apartment instead of waiting the questionable amount of time for the next bus in the opposite direction. 

By the time you finally get back to your place, you’re limping from the blisters your cheap dress shoes had given you, and it’s nearly 4pm. When you enter your apartment, you’re surprised to see Mary on your couch, guitar in hand and scribbling down notes. At the clink of you dropping your keys into the skull ashtray that had just appeared one day, he looks up.

“What are you doing here?” you ask, sounding much more harsh than you intended as you kick off your shoes.

“Well, hello to you too. I couldn’t hear myself think at my place.” He gives you a minute shrug.

You don’t know why this irritates you.

“Well maybe think about giving me the same courtesy,” you snap as you limp toward your bedroom. “I need to lie down.”

You don’t even get changed, just untuck your pussy-bow blouse and unzip your pencil skirt before flopping down onto your bed.

“Interview not go well?” asks Mary’s from your doorframe

You wave your hand. “The interview was fine, but it was a fucking trial and a half getting there and back. Thank god I won’t be onsite.”

“Yeah. I was kind of wondering where you were.”

You just snort and start to wrestle off your nude hose, but then Mary’s kneeling there and rolling them down you. You hiss when he gets to your feet.

“Fuck, your feet are wrecked.”

“Remind me to bring flip flops or something next time.”

“K.”

He tosses your pantyhose at your laundry basket (they only half make it in), then he leans down to kiss the instep on each foot.

“Do you want me to eat you out?” he asks as his hands travel up the inside of your legs.

You lean up to look at him. “Yeah, actually. Would you?”

Mary grins at you. “Ok, baby doll.”

You lie back down as Mary begins to kiss and nip up your legs. You help him to get your panties off and to push up your skirt—then he’s diving into your folds, his tongue enthusiastically lapping at your clit. Unfortunately, you’re just too exhausted to really get into it, and Mary notices your lack of engagement. His head pops up.

“Fingers?”

“Fingers,” you agree.

He wipes off his chin with the back of his hand before climbing onto your bed. You shimmy out of your skirt before he’s rolling you onto your side. He positions himself behind you, his hand sliding down your stomach until it reaches your lips. You arch back into him at the feeling of his finger slip sliding across your sensitive clit.

“Oh yeah, Mare …”

He doesn’t tease you, just keeps up a steady motion, changing it up to avoid touch numbness. Despite your lethargy, you pant and squirm against him as your blood pools and your orgasm slowly builds. He’s been giving your neck little nips and sucks, but as you get close to blowing, Mary leans over to engage you in a wet, sloppy kiss. It ratchets your arousal, and you suck his tongue into your mouth, saliva leaking out the other side, as you begin to press back against his hand. He quickens his finger, and you cry out at the burst of pleasure. Your orgasm swells and breaks soon after, and you moan and thrash a little as Mary works you through the waves.

When you sag, sated, he gives your ear a lick, then removes his hand.

“Mmm,” is all you manage as you roll onto your stomach.

“Yeah, I know. C’mon, let’s get you out of that top.”

“No,” you say into the bed.

“Yes,” he says as he starts to tug up the hem. “You’ll thank me later.”

You just grunt at him.

He manages to get the material up to your armpits before you’re obliged to move by lifting your arms—and even then all you do is hold out your arms.

“You’re a pain in my fucking ass.”

“Mmphb.”

Through minimal effort on your part, Mary finally removes both your top and your bra before rolling you this way and that to get you under the covers. You’re asleep before he even leaves the room.

* * *

You sleep, nude, sprawled out and face mashed into your pillow. It isn’t until much later when you wake. It’s almost certainly because Mary is on all fours over you, mashing his face into your neck. You must move in some tiny way, because he stills.

“Mare,” you mumble groggily into the pillow.

“Shh,” he breaths. “Don’t. Just …” His mouth moves to your ear. “Can I?” he whispers. “I was so good earlier.”

“Mhm,” you agree sleepily.

“Stay still then,” he growls as he shifts about. “Don’t. Move.”

You feel the head of his cock enter you, and you clench and moan. Mary’s other hand is quick on your head, smashing your face further into the pillow.

“Shut up,” he hisses, then his hand is gone.

He takes the tip out, then slides it back in. 

Then out. 

Then in.

He teases himself like that a few more times—making pleased rumbles—before finally sliding all the way home. You bite the pillow in an effort not to twitch or make noise. The bed jostles when his balled hands land on either side of you, supporting himself up. He takes a handful of slow, smooth pumps in and out of you, making little  _Mmm_ noises. It’s a nice feeling that you relax into—silently. 

He speeds up a little … and then a lot … until he’s pounding into you with such force that there's an audible  _slap! slap! slap!_ as he makes contact with your skin and your one arm is jostled slightly off the bed. Mary moans, and changes up to long, hard strokes that hit your sweet spot deliciously; you know your breaths are labored at the strain of staying motionless and quiet, but luckily, any sound you’re making is being drowned out by Mary’s grunts every time the bowl of his pelvis smacks into the meat of your ass. 

You’re pretty slick from your arousal, and Mary easily pumps in and out of you. You can feel your heartbeat in your pussy—and your frustration with not being able to touch yourself increases. Mary suddenly grabs the fat on your back hard enough you almost cry out. He lowers himself down onto his forearms and starts to fuck into you with quicker, deeper thrusts that are no longer quite hitting your G-spot—much to your chagrin. He’s not quite laying on your back, but he’s close enough that you can hear the rasping air through his nose and the  _Uhn_ noises he’s making—his breath hot and moist on the nape of your neck.

You expect him to finish like that, so you’re surprised when he heaves himself up to a kneeling position. His hands grip your hips hard, and then he’s yanking you back onto his dick as he buries himself deep into you. 

And again. 

And again. 

When he accidentally hits your cervix, you  _do_ let out a little mewl, but he doesn’t seem to notice—cock still deep in you and his hands still clamped on your sides. After a moment, you finally feel the tension drain out of him, and he releases his grip, flopping down on the bed beside you. Sluggishly you begin to move your limbs, but Mary gathers you up to him with a soft  _C’mere_ . He presses his sweat-cool body against your back and kisses your neck once before he’s maneuvering your vibrator ( _oh, hello_ ) between your legs.

You reach your hand down to help position it to your liking, mashing into it once … twice … thrice, and then you’re moaning and twitching—the nails of your free hand digging into Mary’s thigh—before the intensity has you finally shying away from the toy lest you make a mess.

Mary clicks the vibe off before letting it go, and you twist around until you’re facing him. You grip his hair in your hands and kiss him deeply, smashing your slickness into him as your cunt still gives an errant spasm or two. He grabs your ass and pulls you into him.

“Yeah, mash that wet pussy into me—I want to smell you on me all night.”

“You’re disgusting.”

“You fucking love it.”

“I should pee on you.”

“Do you think I’ve never been pe—”

You shove a pillow in his face. “OH MY GOD—do  _not_ finish that sentence.”

His hand shoots out and presses on your bladder. You shriek and push him away from you, and he subsequently falls off the bed with an undignified noise. He looks up at you like a disgruntled cat, so you just cackle and sprint out of the bedroom. You can hear him start after you, but he’s not quick enough, and you manage to lock the bathroom door behind you before he can catch you.

* * *

You’re too tired to cook, and you’re wondering if you can count on getting that contract enough to order takeout when Mary surprises you; he takes out a beat up looking Tupperware from your fridge. Something reddish-brown sloshes in it.

“It’s my kitchen-sink goulash.” He beams.

You put a smile on your face.

“Aww, Mare. What’s … in it?” you ask as you squint at the contents.

He pokes you in the ribs. 

“Just fucking try it.”

You reheat it in a big pot, and it looks edible enough—elbow macaronis, ground meat, tomato sauce, green … things. Once you’re settled at your rusty cafe table with the hot food, you dig in and you have to admit that it’s actually not bad. Mary has a smug look on his face as you tuck in.

“Shut up,” you say.

“I didn’t say anything.”

“Your thoughts are loud.”

He just giggles at you.

“So what  _is_ in it?”

“Uh,” says Mary as he chews. “Frozen hamburger patties, spaghetti sauce, noodles, and some okra from the Latin grocer near me.”

You make a thoughtful noise.

“I wouldn’t have guessed okra. I knew it wasn’t green beans, but.”

“I swear that store is the only reason none of us have scurvy.”

Afterwards he packs up his guitar.

“I gotta be getting back to my place.” He licks your nose, and you sputter. He grins. “But thanks for the sex.”

“Yeah, well …” you say as you rub at your nose, “thanks for the Goulash.”

He looks at you for a moment before slipping a hand into your robe to rest on a love handle.

“I didn’t come by just to hear myself think, you know.”

You roll your eyes, but step into his space.

“I kinda got that, Mare.”

You tap your lips, and he leans down to kiss you.


	10. This is Halloween (Halloween)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mary expands Suey's world by taking her to a crazy art party.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No smut, not really. Sorry!

It’s one of the stretches where you actually haven’t seen Mary in a few days. He’d apparently been by your apartment—dishes were done and he took out your trash—but you’d spent that day hunkered down at a coffee shop so you could have sandwiches with a friend who got a job downtown. And while Mary can be lyrical when he wants to be, his texts are usually brief and full of letters that only make sense to him in his shorthand … so you’re not ever going to get any missives from the front lines from him.

Which is fine: you’re super-busy and full of your own hobbies. Like napping. And complaining. Occasionally you’ll round that out with chip-eating. You’ve never been particularly creative—which makes Mary wince at you every now and then (you  _love_ art, you’re just not … adept, and sometimes it seems unfair that he can write music AND lyrics AND doodle great sketches)—but you  _are_ a voracious reader. You’d been shocked to find out that not only had Mary  _read_ Austen, but he also had a love of  _Persuasion_ —a novel you yourself found superior to  _Pride & Prejudice_ . He’d been similarly chuffed when he’d realized you liked Chuck Palahniuk for more than just  _Fight Club_ . 

Which is all to say that when Mary’s not around, you like to combine your hobbies—a little chip eating while you read, only to fall asleep with the book on your face. 

Tonight is no exception.

It’s nearly Halloween (it’s tomorrow actually, and you’re only  _slightly_ bummed that Mary has to work), so in honor of the holiday you’re working your way through an anthology of Lovecraft. Unexpectedly, there's a knock at your door. You check your phone, but there are no texts.

_Hmm_ .

There’s another knock, so you set down the book and sprint to your bedroom to take up what Mary has dubbed your “Masher Hammer.” You make it back to your apartment door just in time for a third series of knocks. When you look out the peephole, however, it’s clear that whoever’s on the other side is blocking the viewer.

Gripping your hammer tight—ready for swing mode—you unlatch your door and open it.

You’re met with the sight of a Jack O’Lantern. 

No—

Not a Jack O’Lantern … some guy with a carved pumpkin on his head.

“ _Ta-d_ —Jesus Christ, Suey … put Masher down,” says a muffled voice.

“Mary?”

Mary lifts the pumpkin—a  _real_ pumpkin, not a plastic basket from the dollar store—a little off his head enough for you to make out his face. You lower your swinging arm.

“Why is there a pumpkin on your head? What are you doing here?” 

He spreads his arms out and does jazz hands. “Mischief Night!” 

When you just stand there squinting at him, he finally takes the pumpkin fully off his head. His hair is squashed, and he’s only wearing some light makeup around his eyes and on his lips.

“So, you gonna let me in, or … should I duck?”

“Oh, right,” you say as you step back.

As Mary suanters in, you can see his eyes sweep to the couch where you’ve made a nest of blankets and pillows—your book lying face down, and the open bag chips positioned at an optimal angle on the coffee table.

“That looks nice.” He sidles up to you to squeeze your tits through your hoodie. “Almost makes me want to call it a night and get cozy in those blankets … I could crush those chips and lick them off you before I eat you out.”

His hand slides down to your crotch.

You’re trying to take him seriously, but he’s holding a pumpkin under his arm. You snap at his face.

“Mary—focus. What the hell?”

He gives you a put out look, exaggeratedly pushing out his bottom lip—but it’s soon replaced with a wicked grin.

“Mischief Night! Do you wanna go to a weird-ass art party?”

“An art party?” you ask dubiously.

“No, not what you’re thinking.”

He sets down the carved pumpkin on your table and walks to your fridge, rummaging around before pulling out the pisswater beer he keeps around.

“Think of it as a teen-movie house party—but on steroids and no one there got laid in high school. With, you know:  _art_ .”

“That’s … very specific.”

He walks back over to you, cradling the beer in one hand, and puts the other on your shoulder.

“We are under no obligation to participate in the orgy.”

You don’t think he’s joking.

He gives you a once over. “It’s also a— _hmm_ —masquerade, so we gotta get you outfitted.”

Your mind darts.

“I only have those stupid headband cat ears my friend got me as a joke.”

He gives you a vulpine smile. “You’re gonna go as me.”

* * *

It had been a fun little party of two as you’d put on a YouTube Halloween playlist from your phone. Mary’d given you a dramatic mohawk with his precious airplane glue, then fished around in the pink makeup bag with hearts (that you’d put his stash in as a joke and he’d kept) to give you his iconic look—blood and all.

There was no way you were going to fit in his skinny jeans, but you’d been able to pair one of his well-worn tees (that you hadn’t already stolen) with your favorite denim skirt. Mary had taken off one of his studded belts to wrap around you—it’d needed a couple of safety pins to act as extensions, but Mary had assured you that that just made the style more authentic. Upon Mary’s request, you’d put on your ripped fishnets, and you had your own worn Docs to complete the look.

“Do I get to be a sex-crazed jerk all night?” you’d asked as you’d admired yourself in the corroded full-length you had propped up by the bathroom.

“You say that as if that’s something new and different for you—fuck  _ow_ ,” said Mary as you’d tapped his balls.

* * *

“So where is this place?” you ask as Mary and you head to the train. 

It’s in the old factory district, which means it’s a ways away, but still subway accessible.

“It’s actually in a converted co-op. I think they started out as squatters— _unclear_ —but now it’s above board as a residence and shit. I used to know a guy who lived there for a while—they had sectioned off areas with screens—and he had a corner so he slept in a hammock. Most of the space is for their art, though. What a fucking life to live.”

You look at him, incredulous. “Mare. You live in a 2 bedroom with 4 other dudes.”

He scoffs at you. “We also have  _a couch_ . It’s a whole ‘nother level.”

You just hum at him.

When you finally get there—after a few mis-turns in this silent neighborhood full of abandoned brick factories—you’re surprised (despite Mary’s description) to see that the place is lit. There’s a guy standing at the entrance to the parking lot (that slopes dangerously toward the river) checking attendees; it becomes clear that not only is he checking for 21+, but for alcohol and toilet paper. Those without either have to “donate” $10.

“Oh—” says Mary right before it’s about to be your turn. “I’m not Mary tonight.”

“What should I call, then? The ‘Great Pumpkin’?”

“Just not  _Mary_ ,” he hisses as you shore up to the “bouncer.”

The guy is not in any kind of costume—just grey sweats and a sports team hat. He’s sitting on a bar stool, and he has a little flashlight he’s using to check IDs.

“Hey, guys!” he says cheerily. “Welcome to Magical Mischief Mystery at the Factory. IDs? Ah! TP and suds? Cool, cool.”

He checks your IDs, then looks at you, then your IDs … then at Mary’s pumpkin face, then at you.

“OH MY GOD,” he starts chortling and slips off the stool to grab Mary’s arm. “Mary, you old bastard—I haven’t seen you since Dusty left to get hitched.”

You take a deep breath and—in your best screamo voice—you say, “I’m fucking Mary Goore,” (not a lie) “and he’s ‘Late for Dinner’.”

The pumpkin head turns to you. You can feel Mary’s unamused gaze.

The bouncer starts wheezing so hard that you’re afraid he might expire from laughing.

“Fuck,  _fuck_ ,” gasps the dude. He shakes his head, eyes watery from mirth, and waves the two of you through.

“I hate you,” says Mary.

“I didn’t call you ‘Mary’, though,” you quip as you slip your arm through his.

“Why do I have to carry all the shit? Here. Pull your fucking weight.”

Mary hands you the toilet paper roll he heisted from your bathroom.

“Are we going to TP something?” you ask as you take the roll from him.

“Heh. No, it’s purely functional. This many people? It’s so the bathrooms don’t run out.”

The two of you enter with another mass of people, traveling through the miasma of secondhand smoke from the smokers. You cough, but Mary inhales deep, sighing. You’re not sure what you were expecting, but you gape as you look around.

You and Mary stand on an open floor—which is what 5 or so floors look out onto all the way up. The place is crowded, but not jam packed. There’s a makeshift kitchen area where a dude in a bare chest and suspenders is accepting the toilet paper and libations. Above him is a white sheet that’s stretched out, on which an Art Film is being projected. The film has no sound because in the far corner there’s a DJ spinning, and a group of people are “dancing” to his jams. Mary was right: it’s like some kind of frat party for the artsy set. Because of the theme, most everyone is in a mask of some sort, and people—or groups of people—are making out in corners in various states of undress. 

Mary grabs two beers, then leads you to a staircase—there’s a freight elevator by it, but it’s got cheesy Halloween “do not enter” tape blocking it.

“The first year too many people loaded into it, and it dropped 3 floors before the emergency brakes kicked in,” says Mary as he notices where you’re looking.

In a loft on the second floor you and Mary watch a woman—nude and covered in white paint—become the canvas to her girlfriend’s landscape painting.

In what’s clearly a shared bedroom, you and Mary peruse some really great paintings and sketches from what must be a number of the co-op residents.

“You should have told me to bring cash,” you say.

“We can always come back. I know a guy.”

You imagine Mary’s probably winking at you.

On the third floor there’s an inexplicable open-air kitchen attached to a bathroom. In it there’s a dude doling out beer from a keg.

“What’s this,” Mary asks him.

“It’s my homemade IPA, dude! Pumpkin for the season!”

He hands Mary a business card.

“We have a small space in the boonies, but we’re trying to get a brewery up and running in the city. Red tape though, man.”

“I fucking hear that.” Mary takes a sip. “Good shit, dude.”

The guy high-fives Mary.

“One for your girl?”

Mary hands you the solo cup, and you take a sip. You were expecting something grassy and hoppy—but the pumpkin actually balances it out nicely without it itself being cloyingly sweet. When you nod, Mary just lets you have his and indicates to the brewer to pump another cup.

The two of you enter what you think might usually be a studio space, but instead there’s a burlesque performance going on. There are some people making out, but Mary and you watch, rapt, praising the skill of the performers to each other.

The fourth floor has the least amount of people. Someone is doing a reading in one corner, and across the way there’s some sort of performance art going on. A woman stands in a white shift and gauze. Every time a dude who looks like a Nazgul rings a bell, she contorts herself to a different pose with a dancer’s ease.

You roll your eyes, but Mary begs your patience—watching solemnly as she continues.

“What is it?” you ask when the set is clearly over.

“Did you not feel it?”

“Uh …”

Even through the pumpkin you can feel his eyes on you.

“She’s a dancing monkey. Bound and constrained, only ever allowed to perform at the whim of her faceless master.”

“Mary …”

“No—don’t scoff. That was meant for  _you_ . It’s an allegory for the patriarchy, and I for one found it quite moving.”

You guess you can see it now that Mary’s pointed it out to you. He takes off the pumpkin, and you hold it while he goes over to talk to the woman. You shift uncomfortably as they engage, and she grabs his hands, shaking them profusely. Mary suddenly points over at you, and the woman waves and motions you over.

“Oh my god, look at you!” she squeals. She turns back to Mary. “I can’t believe I didn’t see it—she looks just like you.”

“I liked your patriarchal allegory,” you say.

Mary twists his mouth at you, but the woman just presses her hands to her chest.

“Thank you so much. I’m testing it out here as a protest piece. A bunch of us are going to travel to different cities and perform outside of big corporations.” She grabs Mary’s wrist. “Your boyfriend is wonderful. His song about—”

“—my band’s song—”

“—the nature of performative gender roles is one of my favs.”

You have no idea which song she’s talking about, but Mary looks pleased. So you’re pleased. You wrap your arm around his waist.

“He is pretty great.”

She lifts her veil to chug the glass of water Nazgul hands her.

“It was so nice to meet you person to person, Mary. I’m going to find the ladies before my next performance.”

“Love your work, Lizzy. I’ll put you on the list for our shows. Show up anytime!”

She bows and shuffles backwards as Mary leads you away.

“You have no idea what song she’s talking about do you?”

“I—” you sputter. “Uh. Dead Things?”

Mary looks at you indulgently.

“I’ll let you think about it.”

It turns out that the 5th floor is off limits to party goers, so Mary—back in his Jack O’Lantern—and you wander down to ground level to acquire more beer and to join the crowd of dancers. At some point the two of you take a break to pee, then hydrate as you add your own dialogue to the film on loop above you.

Back on the dance floor, there’s some skanking, some goth writhing, and some line dancing as the DJ spins his own set and sprinkles in some crowd requests. At this point in the night, most of the attendees have already made passes through the upper floors and are now all on the dance floor. Mary does some goth stomping (his pumpkin abandoned and now being passed around), and you do a silly skank until you slip on a slick spot and fall on your ass. After that, Mary pulls you close and grinds against you, his thigh between yours, both of you buzzed from multiple trips to the bar.

“Do you wanna find a corner?” he whispers into your ear.

In any other situation you’d probably say no … but—for all the crowd is packed—this is clearly a private party, one whose hosts don’t frown upon a little bit of lechery. You guess he wasn’t kidding about the orgy, after all.

“ _Yeah_ ,” you breathe.

It takes a little investigation, but Mary and you find a room that seems to have been either designated or usurped as the makeout room. There’s a writhing mass in one corner, and the bed is covered in rolling bodies. There’re some breathy invitations—and a hand or two lightly caresses your calf as you walk by—but no one insists on participation further than that. 

Mary yanks a pillow from the bed and tosses it to the floor. He pulls you down so that you’re both on your knees, his mouth capturing yours and his hands alighting everywhere. A hand of his sneaks down your skirt, and yours slithers down his jeans—the roving fingers of you each more a prelude than anything, stoking you both up to what’s next.

“Can I fuck you?” huffs Mary.

“Kinda drunk,” you say.

“Do you want me to stop?”

“No—just not gonna be very useful,” you giggle.

Because you wore the fishnets you’re not wearing underwear, so all Mary has to do is rip a hole in the crotch area—they’re not even good fishnets, so it’s not like there’s a liner to contend with. He grunts at your wetness.

“You sure?”

“Fuck me, Mary.”

He fumbles with his dick, finally managing to sink it into you. It’s a very awkward fuck—you’re lolling all about the place, and Mary isn’t being particularly steady.

At one point a light turns on only for a  _Sorry!_ to squeal out as it turns off again.

You try to swallow your laugh, but your jiggling belly can’t hide your reaction, and soon Mary is laughing too.

“Fuck … shut up … fuck,” he giggles. “I’m trying to get off here.”

You’re just catapulted into further fits, and before long Mary’s soft cock is slipping out of you as he joins you in snickering.

“Crap. I might be too drunk for this too.”

The two of you lay like that for a bit, a feedback loop of laughter, until your belly muscles ache.

“Fuck. Take me home, Suey.”

“Yeah, ok,” you say. 

After some readjusting, you both stumble out of the room. The crowd has thinned, but that’s not to say the dance party isn’t still going strong.

“We should get a cab,” you say.

“Cash?” Mary asks as you guys shuffle out of the building.

“App,” you say as you hold up your phone to poke at your cab app. “My card s’on file.”

“Fancy.”

“S’for emergencies.”

“Oh.”

You give him a lopsided grin. “Like staying too late at a factory party.”

There’s a comedy of errors when the cab can’t find you and cancels, and you have to rebook—only to have the same cab automatically cancel your order again. Mary calls the number for dispatch, and they direct you out to a main street. The cab that picks you up is the same cab that voided your reservation twice, and he yells at you for giving him the wrong address.

You let Mary argue with him (content to doze on his shoulder)—the conclusion seeming to be that while you put in the correct address, the app didn’t like it and spit out a close, but different, pickup address.

By the end of the trip, however, the cabbie and Mary seem to be old friends. He lingers even after the driver validates your card, talking with the guy about where he’s from, until you tug on his arm.

“ _Sleepy_ ,” you grumble into him.

The cab driver laughs.

“We are beholden to our women, yes?”

“Happily,” says Mary as he wraps an arm around you.

“Have a good night,” says the cabbie, and Mary just raps on the car, waving as it pulls away.

“What a cool dude,” he says as the two of you shuffle toward your building.

“Mhm,” you mumble.

“Jesus, you’re useless when you’re drunk.”

There’s a lot of fumbling and stumbling, but you both finally make it into your apartment. Somehow Mary gets you into the shower, which you don’t even realize until it turns on, and you shriek when the cold water smacks you in the face before it has the chance to warm up.

“Why am I still in my clothes?!” you whine.

Mary pokes his head in.

“You fucking serious? You almost bit off my fingers when I tried to undress you!”

“I’m more than just sex!” you yell.

“Just fucking wash your face.”

“Kay.”

You fall asleep sitting in the shower, waking only when the water turns cold. It seems to have had a sobering effect, because you definitely feel more clear headed than when you entered—it’s not as funny to be slightly sober and peeling off your cold, wet clothes. Usually you give your teeth the full experience, but tonight (this morning?), you just give them a quick brush.

For all he seemed soberer of you two, Mary doesn’t seem to have fared much better. He managed to get his shirt off, but he’s lying on your bedroom floor—curled in a ball—still in his unbuckled jeans. It would be amusing—and maybe after sleep it will be—if you weren’t so wrecked. It’s a struggle tugging off his jeans, and he semi-wakes halfway through and starts to shiver.

“Wha—?”

He looks at you blearily.

“Help me get your pants off, Mare bear.”

He blinks down at his legs, then sort of squirms his legs to help you wiggle him out of the black denim. Luckily—disorientated as he is—he’s able to assist you in getting him into your bed; he conks out again the minute you trundle him under the covers. The night outside is lightening, and you know there’s no way you can work tomorrow. Today.

Whatever.

You shuffle into your living room and start up your laptop, blinking rapidly as it boots up. When it finally loads, you send off a missive to your supervisor about potential food poisoning you’ve contracted, but how you’ll check your email later this afternoon. You preemptively down some ibuprofen and sneak some of Mary’s Pedialyte.

Mary seems dead to the world when you climb into your bed, but he’s rolling over and wrapped around you as soon as you’re settled, huffing into your neck.

“Took the morning off,” you mumble.

He hums.

You’re in a good doze when he speaks, jarring you back awake.

“Had fun?”

“Yeah, Mare. Now,  _shh_ .”

He mumbles something into your neck, but it’s too incoherent and you’re too knackered to decipher it. You just relax into his koala embrace and let sleep take you.


	11. Why not?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mary and Suey need to use their words

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Angst ahead bc: dumbasses

Sometimes you wonder if Mary’s attraction to you stems from the fact that you had no idea who he was when the two of you met at Mickey’s. Sure, there’s some Venn Diagram-like overlap between your crowd and his—but your exploits and his had never touched. You have a few mutual friends-of-friends that everyone always seems to know—but no substantial connections.

Mary’s never made his past sexploits a secret—even if he’s demurred on the gritty details—so you know his other forays into relationships have mostly been from people already in his orbit from the neighborhood or from his “fan” pool.

Basically: all people who already knew his music.

It doesn’t keep you up at night, but occasionally—when there’s a prolonged, awkward silence, or the two of you get into a heated debate that proceeds slammed doors—you can’t help but wonder. It doesn’t help that Mary seems reticent to bring you to shows—big or small. 

And, ok—maybe  _at first_ you didn’t really care: everyone and their sister knows a guy who’s “in a band” that never actualizes, and you two are oil and water on your  _best_ days, so why invest energy into a band you’re going to be compelled to dislike after the breakup? Once you guys had passed the 3mo mark, however, you knew you had to get serious about it if you wanted to be serious about Mary.

You would have thought it would’ve made Mary happy—you taking a marked interest in his first love—but he’d honestly seemed ambivalent about it. You talking about his songs and asking him questions only seemed to irritate him to no end … so you’d dropped it.

When he’d told you about another Saturday gig—that wasn’t closing Mickey’s—you’d once again offered to come … and he’d been a dick about it, prompting one of your worst fights to date.

“Why do you even wanna be there?” he’d huffed.

“I’m your fucking girlfriend,” you’d retorted.

“So you just want to piss on me and mark your territory, is that it?”

“Jesus fucking Christ, I thought I’d support your fucking passion is all.”

“You never cared before.”

“Oh—I’m sorry! Was I supposed to know everything that mattered to you two fucking seconds in?”

“I just think it’s fucking suspect that all of sudden you wanna be around.”

“So the other girlfriends are fine. It’s just me who’s a fame whore?”

“They’re all into the scene.”

“And what the fuck does that mean? I’m not a bandophile so I couldn’t possibly be interested?”

“It means I’m fucking done with that shit. The switching? The bed hopping? If that’s what you want, fucking tell me right now.”

“Where are you even getting this shit from?”

He’d looked you dead in the eyes.

“You have a reputation, Suey.

At first, you hadn’t even understood enough to be insulted.

“For fucking what? I barely follow the local music scene.”

“You think I didn’t ask around about you? The ‘Ice Queen’? Likes to fuck, but will eat you up and spit you out?”

You’d felt hot and cold all at once—your face flushing then draining of color.

“Are you fucking … are you fucking  _slut shaming_ me?!” you’d hissed as you’d jabbed a finger at him.

He hadn’t backed down. “I don’t think it’s unreasonable to wonder if a girl who’ll fuck anything that moves wouldn’t be looking to take her act elsewhere. The guys might dislike you, but you know they’d never pass up free pussy.”

You’d been trembling with anger at that point and scrubbing tears from your eyes.

“I’ve never … I’ve never hidden the fact that I like to fuck. I can’t believe you with your … your orgies and partner swapping have any fucking thing to say to me about my one-night stands.”

“How do I know you’re not using me for easy access, huh? I can barely even tell if you like me instead of my dick sometimes, and now all of sudden you’re interested in my band?”

You’d screamed and knocked a bowl off your counter, not even caring when the ceramic had shattered into shards.

“I’M SHOWING YOU I LIKE YOU BY BEING INTERESTED IN YOUR FUCKING BAND, YOU FUCKING ASSHOLE.”

Then you’d grabbed a mug and thrown it in the ground for good measure. It hadn’t shattered, but the handle had broken off. Dissatisfied, you’d turned to your dish rack, but before you could start breaking dishes, Mary had had his arms wound around you.

“Hey,  _hey_ … it’s ok.  _Shh_ , c’mere.”

You’d screamed again and struggled against him.

“ _Fuck you_ !”

“Fuck, I’m sorry. Suey, calm down.”

Mary had managed to pick you up slightly, transferring you from the mess in the kitchen area to the living space, where he’d pulled you both down to the floor against the couch. You’d struggled some more, but only in an obligatory sense.

“Fuck. I’m sorry. Fuck,” Mary had breathed.

You’d only wailed in response, tears now flowing freely.

“I didn’t mean … fuck. I don’t think …” he’d babbled.

“You  _didn’t_ think,” you’d blubbered. “All those dudes, and you’re the one with a fucking drawer. How fucking  _dare_ you.”

Mary’s hold had tightened, but it wasn't to restrain you.

“Fuck, I know. I’m sorry. I just … it wouldn’t be the first time I thought some girl liked me, when all they wanted was to fuck the band. It’s a fucking sore spot, ok?”

“I’m supposed to be ok with you thinking I’ve been playing you?”

“I just fucking panicked, ok? I—I really fucking like you.”

“Don’t be gross.”

“Fuck off.”

You’d both chuckled.

“I just really fucking like you, and sometimes I just get too far into my own fucking head.”

You’d leaned back into his chest.

“You’re a fucking asshole and what you said was trashy. You said it to hurt me, and that’s not ok, Mary.”

He’d sighed and rested his forehead onto your shoulder.

“I just needed to hear you say it wasn’t true.”

“That’s still fucking insulting, but—” you’d tilted your head toward his, “Mary, I’m not dating you to fuck your bandmates. Now, fucking apologize.”

“I’m sorry I … that I was … my—”

“—that you were fucking cruel.”

“I’m sorry I was fucking cruel.”

“Thank you.”

The two of you had sat like that for a while until Mary had broken the silence.

“You scare me when you react like that.”

“I know,” you’d sighed. “I just … got overwhelmed. I’m … I  _am_ working on it, you know?”

“How?”

You’d curled a little into yourself.

“I do go to therapy, you know. It’s been—it  _is_ —a process.”

“K.”

“ _K_ ?”

“Um, ‘ok, I acknowledge your effort and support it and won’t push as long as you’re getting help’?”

“Thanks.” You’d waited for a beat then had said, “Now you have to give me one. One personal thing.”

You’d waited patiently as Mary had considered.

“I was on my own at 19, so the guys are like my brothers—I love them, but they’re fucking annoying, and I hate them sometimes too. I’d give any one of them a kidney, but not my girl.”

You’d sighed. “I’m not going to fuck your brothers, Mare.”

“Yeah, I know. But thanks for saying.”

After that he’d helped you clean up the broken bowl. A week later you’d found your mug back in the cabinet—the handle was out of line with the break, but somehow still firmly secured back into place. You’d also stopped asking about attending his shows.

* * *

Thanksgiving came—he’d spent the day with his extended band family; you’d traveled out of state to spend it with your best friend—as you’d been doing since college. She knows a little about you and Mary, and you were happy to stay up drinking contraband wine with her on the trundle bed in her room as you’d scrolled through the handful of personal g-rated pictures you had.

It’s Saturday (your bus back home is at 6am the next day), and your bff and you are downtown just hanging out. You fucking love the energy of South Street, especially  _Crash Bang Boom_ , formally  _Zipperhead_ . One of the stops on your itinerary is a record store, and on a lark you go to see if Mary’s record is here. You know from one of Mary’s rants that they’ve been struggling to get wider distribution without a formal label, but that there’s a pretty good trade network amongst some of the indie places, and Philly isn’t so far away. You have to do more than a cursory search but!

It’s here!

You pull it out, intent on calling your friend over, when two guys who’d been browsing near you accost you.

“I hear they’re hot right now!” Boy 1 says.

“They used to be so hard to find,” says Boy 2.

You beam. “I know, right? They’re great.”

“You a big fan?” asks Boy 2.

What you mean to say is,  _I think their sound is very unique_ , but what you say when you open your mouth is, “I’m dating the lead guitarist.”

The two guys look at each other and snigger slightly.

“Yeah, ok,” says Boy 2.

You scrunch your face at them.

“I am.”

“Ok, maybe online you can peddle that crap, but c’mon,” says Boy 1.

You know not to feed the trolls … but these guys are kind of pissing you off. You tuck the DIY CD under your arm as you fish out your phone; it takes you a few seconds of poking, but you bring up the g-rated pics of you and Mary—most of which are slightly-blurry selfies. You think they’re endearing. Boy 1 and Boy 2 aren’t impressed.

“Are you serious?” sneers Boy 1. “These are clearly post-show selfies.”

“Fucking sad,” says Boy 2, shaking his head.

You’re at a loss because the majority of these are from your couch, so you toss your hair at them.

“Whatever. I don’t need a bunch of fake music boys to validate me. Krissy! Let’s bounce.”

You do end up buying the CD for her—which she promises to listen to in full and then report back.

When you get back to your place Sunday night—cranky and bleary-eyed—you’re surprised to find Mary asleep on your couch, cocooned in your afghan, even though it’s barely early evening. You divest yourself of your outside clothes and backpack before crawling over him.

“Mmph,” he grumbles.

“Hey,” you say, draped over him. “Why’re you on the couch?”

He manages to turn his head toward you slightly.

“You weren’t here.”

“Mare. You can sleep in my bed.”

He wiggles around so you’re both face to face.

“Yeah, I know. Wanted to know when you got back.”

“I still don’t see—”

He kisses you and manages to get his arms free to wrap around you.

“You’d’ve let me sleep if I was in your bed,” he says as he breaks the kiss.

“Yeah, maybe. Only because you’d need it.”

There’s some making out that begins to border on foreplay before your stomach rumbles unhappily. Mary laughs.

“You’re fucking great.”

“Shut the fuck up,” you grumble. “I think I last ate over 12hrs ago.”

Mary shifts to a sitting position. “I’m about to become your best friend.” He wiggles free and makes his way into your kitchen. You wrap the afghan around you as you shuffle after him. He beams at you before opening your fridge and doing his best impression of Vanna White. You peer in to see that there are multiple Tupperware containers jigsawed into your fridge.

“Oh!” you exclaim. “Is this …?”

Mary’s grin is almost a rictus.

“You don’t think I look out for my baby doll? Friendsgiving leftovers, just for you!”

You crowd into his space.

“I don’t know what I should eat first: this bounty or your dick!”

Mary wraps his arms around you, but says, “Lady’s choice.”

Despite how hungry you are, you drop to your knees—afghan pooling around you—and mouth at his zipper. He caresses your head and shoulders, but when he doesn’t insist, you take matters into your own hands; you pet at his semi before unzipping his jeans and taking out his cock and balls.

“You don’t—” he gasps even as his hands are cupped around the back of your head.

“Shut the fuck up,” you say right before you take the tip of him into your mouth to suckle.

Mary likes it fast and sloppy, but tonight you suck him at your own pace—one hand rolling his balls and giving sporadic presses to his perineum. He’s trembling and whimpering, his hands clenching and unclenching in your hair. After one particularly hard suck he cries out, “Oh fuck,  _please_ .”

You shuffle around so that your back is against a bottom cabinet, and you make a soft grunt so that he looks down at you. His lips are wet and his eyes are glazed as you widen your mouth and moan encouragingly at him. His hands grip into your hair as he begins to fuck your face.

“Oh shit, oh fuck,” he breathes. “So sweet. Your fucking mouth.”

Usually you do your best to deep throat Mary, but today he seems to sense not to choke you. He’s still fucking your mouth, though—thrusting as deep as he dares, undeterred by the saliva dripping down your chin.

“I fucking missed you—missed this.”

You make sure to lock your gaze with his.

“ _Fuck_ .”

You bring your hand back up to his balls.

“OhpleaseOhshitOhfuckOhplease,” he chants, eyes now closed.

You slap your cunt a few times before you slip a hand into your tights to work at your clit in time to Mary fucking your mouth.

“Oh fuck, yeah—that’s right. My cock makes you so hot.”

You let the hand fondling him fall away so you can brace yourself against the counter, and Mary starts fucking your mouth faster. He’s still staring down at you, but now he’s only chanting  _Fuck_ over and over again as he pummels your mouth. You think he’ll probably cum first, but it’s actually you—your own adept fingers pushing you over the edge—and it’s only after you moan in time that he shoves you down on his cock as it kicks and shoots its load down your throat.

He lets go of your hair well before you’d even consider tapping out, so you make sure you suck up and down the length of him before he grunts and pulls away from oversensitivity. He looks down at you with hooded eyes as you continue to gently massage your own climax out.

“You’re too fucking good to me,” he says as he recombobulates himself.

You’re just easing the waves of your orgasm at this point.

“So fucking make me a plate,” you purr, knees splayed as you continue to finger yourself.

Mary grunts at you as if he’d like nothing better than to squash you into the floor and fuck the shit out of you—but by the time you’re done massaging the throbs out of your clit and and standing up, he’s got the food containers out and is constructing your plate.

Mary feeds you from the full plate in his lap—quite a departure from the norm (you love feeding him at your feet)—and the two of your talk about your holiday. He tells you about their mashed potato food fight. You tell him all about Krissy’s drama—which mostly entails her parents thinking that her living at home means she’ll be a nun—but you offhandedly mention Boy 1 & Boy 2 in context of your day out. 

Mary tenses.

“What?” you ask as you catch his eye. You’re not going to bring up seeing his band if you can help it.

“Nothing.”

“No,  _what_ ?”

Mary sighs.

“You just. I hate that they didn’t believe you. You  _are_ my girl.”

You wriggle up and shrug.

“They’re not wrong. A few close up selfies don’t prove anything.”

“It still fucking sucks, and I hate it. Can we go to bed when you’re done?”

You snort. “You just want to snuggle.”

“So what if I fucking do? I brought you candied sweet potatoes at great cost to my life and limb. You owe me.”

You huff in laughter. “All right, dude. Fine. Let me brush my teeth and then we can …  _snuggle_ .”

“Damn straight.”

* * *

It’s maybe two weeks later when Mary’s on your couch watching the WWE, your feet in his lap as you play a game on your phone (no way was him being here is going to make you miss your chance at getting a high placing on this week’s special challenge). During the commercial break he plucks at your alumni sleep pants.

“Hey. Have you noticed you haven't worn anything nice in a while?” he says to your leg.

You look up at him over your phone, incredulous.

“Um, ok. First of all:  _rude_ . Second: Dude. Half your shirts are from  _high school_ and half of those are covered in blood. What the fuck.”

His hand sneaks under your pant leg to stroke at your calf. When you shy away—shaving a long-forgotten routine now that the weather has chilled—he firmly pulls you back to continue his exploration.

“Yeah. I don’t  _own_ anything nice—you have all these cute as fuck clothes just chilling on your curtain rod collecting dust.” 

You heave a sigh.

“Well. You work most nights, Mary. You know I try to be here if you’re going to be around, and what?—I’m gonna dress up in my own home?”

He squeezes your calf muscle.

“Christ, you’re defensive. Let me fucking finish my lead in, woman. I just mean we should get out.”

You creep the foot of your free leg under his t-shirt to press into his boney ribs.

“Ok, but when? Your schedule’s not very conducive to that, you know.”

He looks at you, searching your face, before insinuating himself between your legs and rubbing his hands up your thighs. 

“We’re playing at Regency in a few weeks,” he says as he leans down to kiss your belly. He looks up at you. “You could put on one those ‘fuck me’ numbers you got.” 

_Kiss_ . 

“Come see me play.” 

_Kiss_ . 

“I could fuck you in the bathroom.” 

_Kiss_ .

He takes the hem of your pants between his teeth and begins to tug it down.

“Mary! My  _ranking_ !”

“Fuck your ranking,” he says as he yoinks your phone out of your hand and shoves it down the front of his pants. You gasp as he yanks your bottoms the rest of the way free, and then proceeds to run his tongue through your folds. Your hands grip his hair tight as he worms his tongue around and over your clit, sparking your arousal. You let your head fall back, moaning, as he tongues you.

He breaks away suddenly. “So will you think about it?”

You look down at him through hazy vision. “Wha—what?”

“The show. Will you think about coming to it?”

The only thing you’re thinking about right now is his tongue back on you.

“ _Fuck._ C’mon, Mary.”

“The. Gig,” he continues, before giving you one, long lap. “Wanna show you off,” he says, growling into your labia.

Christ he should make up his mind. As if it was  _your_ reticence from attending. 

“Yeah!” you gasp, encouraging him, as you grind yourself into his waiting mouth. “Wanna be shown off!”

He yanks you down prone, hoisting your legs over his shoulders so he has better access to suck your clit between his plump lips. The sensation is heavenly, and you make pleased noises.

“Gonna show off my hot girlfriend,” he pants as he comes up for air. “Make everyone know you’re mine, rub it in their faces.”

You grab the back of his head and rub  _his_ face into your pussy.

“Shut the fuck up and  _get on_ with it for chrissake’s!”

He eats you out in earnest then—his tongue and lips adeptly coaxing you toward climax—the sound of the snarling wrestlers and cheering crowd the soundtrack to your orgasm; he licks you steadily as you squirm and thrash through it. Once you're thoroughly spent, he divests you of your top and crawls up your torso while unbuckling his jeans—your phone plopping onto your stomach and sliding down into the cushions. 

“Hold your tits together,” he rumbles before thrusting between them a handful of times, head thrown back. Then he leans over you—guiding his cock to your mouth with his hips, before he’s fucking your face into the couch—unashamedly moaning when he hears you gag. He pulls out in time to cum all over your face and neck, hand flying between his legs—too intent with his art to even grunt out his pleasure.

Looking down at you, he bites his lip and says, “Fuck you’re beautiful. Can I take a picture?”

(This was something you’d gotten used to—Mary always wanting to take pictures of the oddest things with his ancient, digital HP camera.)

When you hesitate, he says, “No, you’re right. It’s …” He begins to climb off you, but you put a hand on his thigh.

“You … you can,” you stutter “but … I’ll keep it for you. Just … transfer it to me and delete it immediately.”

He rolls his eyes. “Big help you having it when I’m lonely and want to jerk off,” he says—but he's already off the couch, tucking himself back in, and rummaging through his worn backpack.

The two of you had done a little photoshoot then, trying to get the best angles, the best shine, your sexiest pout—and a few with his fingers in your mouth. When he’s satisfied, he hands you your shirt so you can wipe off—which you promptly rejected in favor of cleaning off in the bathroom sink (**“Gross.”** _“What? I don’t understand.”_ **“I wear this shirt!”** _“My jizz is literally on you right now!”_).

When you come back out, Mary already has his memory card in the USB convertor and is attached to your laptop.

“Don’t I get to help choose?” you ask as you sit down next to him.

“My pictures.”

“My face!” you retort.

“My pictures for my use.”

You lean in to see which he’s chosen.

“Oh, not that one! I look like Jaba the Hutt with that chin!”

Mary squints at it, shrugs, then turns to grin at you.

“I won’t be looking at your chin.”

“ _Fine_ ,” you grumble flopping back. “But I want my complaint filed on the record.”

“Ok,” he says and kisses the tip of your nose.

You push him away and wipe at your face. “Gross, Mary. Don’t be all mushy and shit.”

“I’ll do whatever the fuck I want, Suey,” he says into the computer.

When he finishes—4 photos now living in a folder on your desktop entitled “MarysSecretJackoffMaterial”—he lets you drive. You promptly drag all the smutty images of you into your trash and delete them immediately.

He has to leave for work not long after that, and you’ve gotten sucked into the WWE storyline. It isn’t until you’re ready to go to bed that you realize your phone is still in the depths of the couch. Once retrieved, you text him.

**Me [12:37am]: Goddamnit, Mary! My RANKING.**

_Mary [2:28am]: XD_


	12. The Band Onstage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Suey finally gets to go to a show. 
> 
> Again, not Repugnant accurate!

Tonight is Mary’s gig at Regency. You’d put it in your calendar, but Mary still had texted you this morning.

_Mary [6:12am]: Rgcy 2nite 8_

_Mary [8:03am]: Guitr 6 pls_

You wanted to make fun of him for forgetting the most important thing, but the only reason it’s here in the first place was so he could see you while getting in some extra play.

And it allowed  _you_ some extra play.

It’s definitely one of your horny days. No matter what you do, it seems like every position you sit in presses on your clit in a delicious way. You usually just take a nap on your lunch break, but today you’re really going to have to do something about the fact that your focus is throbbing between your legs.

At 11:59am, you slam your laptop shut and hurry into your room. It’s a veritable minefield as usual—Mary always complains about tripping over your outfit detritus (**“Can you not tread all over my shit, ****_please_****?!”** _“Christ, if you care about it so much, why is it on your floor!?”_)—but it’s a controlled chaos. You rummage around for your vibrator, which _could_ be anywhere (Mary has the tendency to just toss it when he’s done with you), but _should_ be on your small table. Or next to your pillow. Perhaps under the bed.

After a hasty search, you finally find it when you shake out your duvet. You go to settle in—then think  _maybe some porn, too_ ? Which means you have to go back out to your laptop. 

Ugh. Why is everything hard.

You shuffle back out to your living area and quickly get your viewing pleasure set up. The video starts, and you spread your legs, pressing the toy to your clit in morse code bursts. You’re just getting into it when—

_bonk!_

The neck of Mary’s guitar, which had been propped up on the other end of the couch, beans you in the temple.

“ _Ow_ , fuck!”

You set your vibe aside and, grumbling, begin to carefully maneuver his instrument out of the splash zone. You’re pretty worked up at this point—which will be your excuse to yourself later—so when your hand slides down the neck, you can’t help but think of the way Mary’s hands deftly manipulate it when he plays.

And, fuck—you  _love_ Mary’s hands.

Sliding your hand back up the neck, you pretend to be Mary pretending the guitar is you.

Doooown  _twang_ . Uuuuup,  _twang_ .

You hastily reach behind you and fumble around for your vibrator, pressing it in between your clenched thighs so you can grind against it as you stroke the guitar.  _Mary’s hands, hands on you, tongue in ear, on your neck, on your clit_ …

Fervently you rut against the buzzing toy, Mary’s guitar now clutched to you, as the stimulation finally sets you over the edge. You cry out—one hand shooting to grip at the couch cushion—as the continuous vibrations make you cum hard and then eke a demi-orgasm out of you before you can reach down to yank it away. You lie there for a minute—one hand still grasped around the guitar neck, the other pressed down on your cunt as you wait for the spasms to subside.

Taking in a deep breath, you stretch languorously … and notice how sticky you are now. Ugh—the crotch of your lounge pants is beyond hope, but you’re pretty sure you have a clean pair in one of the piles in your room. 

You extract yourself from the couch and begin to shimmy off your pants; you realize you’re still pretty slick—fuck, are you going to have to shower or will a baby wipe do?!—when your eye lands on Mary’s guitar, now prone on the couch. Your lips spread in an involuntary grin. Clambering back onto the couch, you straddle the guitar. Tentatively, you lower your pussy onto the strings and start to slide up the neck. 

Ok, you’re  _definitely_ going to need a shower.

It ends up feeling pretty weird, so you straighten back up, swipe your hand through your wet folds, and begin to smear that and what’s already on the strings the rest of the way up. You make sure to spread it out evenly all the way up, and—when you’ve exhausted what’s between your legs—you rub the crotch of your pants up and down the back. Only once you’re satisfied, do you climb off and gingerly take the instrument to secure in its case.

You decide to stretch out your lunch break—no sense showering now and then later. Turning on your email sound notifications, you hop into the shower, where you wash your hair with the good shampoo & conditioner and lose the fight against the patriarchy by shaving things.

A little bit of product in your hair, and you wrap yourself in an old, but comfortable robe. No use putting on clothes when you’re just going to take them off in a few hours!

You finish out the rest of your (long, boring) workday with minimal tantrums, though in your mind you’re already fucking Mary post show. Despite having already showered, you’re still running woefully behind to hand off Mary’s guitar to him at 6pm. You wrap your rain trench around you—you’d originally intended to wear your vintage one with the faux-fur collar, but you don’t want Mary seeing your outfit just yet—and head off to the club at a speed prance.

The door to the club isn’t locked, but when you wander in, it’s just a handful of staff—the bouncer leaning on the bar, the bartender counting his till, and some servers wiping down tables. The bouncer straightens.

“Doors at 7:30, honey.”

“Oh, um,” you stutter, “the band?”

“You can meet the band after, just like everybody else. For now ….” He starts to move in your direction, but then Mary appears—stiff and stomping towards you.

“What was it I said to you, Jimmy?” he snaps. “I said ‘A girl with a guitar.’ Does she look like a groupie to you?”

Jimmy rolls his eyes and puts his hands up before sitting back down. Mary practically rips the case from your grasp.

“You’re  _late_ ,” he hisses at you. “It’s nearly 6:30!”

“Well ‘hello’ to you too, asshole. I was working til half past 5.”

Mary puts down the case, opening to check the contents—as if you’d bring him an empty case. Satisfied, he snaps it back shut.

“I said 6 for a reason! Soundcheck is in 5, and now I’m gonna have to do tuneups on the fly. Maybe next time skip on the primping, ok?”

You flick his ear.

“Fuck,  _ow_ .”

“Don’t talk to me like that.”

“Don’t be fucking late then!”

You snap your fingers in front of his face.

“I’m sorry—am I the one who forgot his guitar? Am I the one who begged me to be here with cunnilingus?”

“Well, if you don’t wanna be here, then  _leave_ . No one’s fucking forcing you.”

You glare at him, then count to ten.

You go to squish his face between your hands, realize he’s in full corpse paint, and instead rest them on his shoulders.

“LOOK at me.” He does, pouting and eyebrows furrowed—your grumpy skeleton. “I  _do_ want to be here … but if you disrespect me like that again, I’m fucking walking. I don’t deserve to be talked to like that. Am I understood, Goorey boy?”

“Yeah,” he mumbles.

You quirk your eyebrow at him.

“ _Am I understood_ ?”

“Yes, ma'am,” he says more sharply.

“Good,” you say, giving him a quick, light peck on the lips. “You’ll do great,” you say in quieter tones. 

“Thanks,” he says, leaning into you a bit. You push him away, playfully.

“Go! You have to go do  _soundcheck_ !”

He trundles off—muttering what sounds a lot like  _Pain in my ass_ —and when you look up you can see the hard eyes of the band on you from the platform stage. You form your hand into the bird and wave at them before sauntering out of the bar. With an hour to kill, you head to a cafe where you can nurse a tea and plug in your phone.

When 7:30 rolls around, you make your way back to the club. There’s a line, but when Jimmy sees you, he grins and waves you forward.

“You must have magic nipples or some shit to put ole’ Mary Goore in his place,” he says as he lets you in the club.

You wink at him. “They’re beer-flavored.” You hear him guffaw as you make your way in.

Now that the space is filled with people, it seems like a much bigger venue. It’s not at capacity yet, but there are enough patrons milling about for it to be lively. You luck out with a stool at the bar where you can easily see the stage. You shimmy out of your trench and grope around under the bar until you find a hook to hang it on.

You order a wheat beer from the bartender, who winks and tells you that the first one’s on the house. You beam in thanks, making a note to tip him extra when you settle up. As you sip your beer and do some people watching, you become aware of the two women sitting next to you. They’d been talking about “the band” (Mary’s is just the first opener) since you sat down, but you only tune in when it becomes clear they’re discussing Mary’s band.

“… totally slaps,  _of course_ , but they’re all  _so hot_ ,” says the redhead with blond streaks framing her face.

“Ugh, right? But the lead guitarist especially can step on me,” says the bottled black-haired one with red lowlights.

_Oh_ , you think,  _that’s Mary_ . It’s not like you don’t know Mary has fangirls. You’re not even particularly bothered by it—but reading comments on the internet is viscerally different than encountering it in the wild. It’s just: surreal.

You scoot your stool a little closer to the women.

“Hello? Hi. Yes, I’m sorry—but I couldn’t help but overhear you guys. That’s who I’m here to see too.”

You mean the band, but Black Hair says, “Oh! So you’re a Dead Girl, too?”

You squint. “I’m a …?”

Red Hair chortles. “Did you just get into them, then?”

“I—”

“I mean … they’re all hot, 10/10,” sighs Black Hair, “but ‘Dead Girls’ are Mary’s—that’s the lead guitarist—girls.”

Before you can say anything, Red Hair leans in conspiratorially.

“But don’t get your hopes up—I heard he’s got a girlfriend.”

Black hair tilts her head back and rolls it back and forth “ _Why_ . So unfair.”

You hide a smile behind your hand, wondering if you should say anything. Maybe you can get Mary to sign their … whatevers. 

Red Hair pats her arm and leans in to stage whisper, “Don’t worry—I heard she’s fat and ugly. I’m sure you have a chance.”

“Ugh, why do they always go for the fat chicks? Is their self-esteem that low?”

“He probably feels obligated to her or something. Doesn’t know he’s got  _options_ now.”

Their casually cruel description of you leaves you stunned and feeling cold for a minute. And ok—your arms aren’t the firmest and maybe spanx are a lost cause

—which is as far as you get before you remember that you’re actually awesome and that this particular self-loathing train lost the caboose full of fucks a long time ago. 

You scoot even closer to the women.

“Do you want to know something?”

The two of them look at you expectantly, heads tilted.

“It’s just—I know who his girlfriend is, and she’s such a  _bitch_ .”

You have their attention now, and they bring their stools in, too.

“ _Really_ ?”

“Do tell!”

“OMG,” you say. “You are way skinnier, um … ?”

“Molly,” says  <strike> Black Hair </strike> Molly.

“Katrina,” says  <strike> Red Hair </strike> Katrina.

“Suey,” you say, introducing yourself with Mary’s pet name for you.

“So, what’s the tea?” asks Molly.

“Well … she thinks she’s  _amazing_ , and she bosses him around like whoa. I don’t think his bandmates like her very much.”

“ _Ooo_ ,” squeals Katrina, “the salt!”

“Oh shit!” exclaims Molly. “Is she  _here_ ?”

You exaggeratedly scan the room. “Hmm. I don’t see her in the crowd.

“So you think I have a chance?”

You scan her up and down, as if appraising. 

“You can give it a shot.”

Katrina and Molly look at each other and start giggling.

Suddenly the lights dim, and everyone screams as Mary’s band takes the stage. The lead singer introduces them, yelling, and they dive into their first song. You don’t get to say much to the women after that—Mary’s band is loud, and some of the die-hard fans are screeching along in unison. 

You’re not sure, but you think you can see Mary searching for you. You suddenly curse your spot at the bar. About 15 minutes in, however—as the lead singer is introducing the band members—Mary finally looks over your way. You give a small wave and he locks eyes with you; you give him the middle finger and suck it into your mouth seductively.

He doesn’t get a chance to respond before it’s his introduction, and he’s playing a complicated riff.

“OMG. Was he looking at us?”

“He was totally looking at us!”

You roll your eyes and turn around to order another beer. 

Their set lasts about 45 minutes before they’re thanking the crowd and packing up their gear. The bigger bands will have roadies, but Mary and his bandmates have only themselves and the techs from the venue to rely on, so you know you’re in for a bit of a wait. Katrina and Molly are clapping and screaming their heads off, which—you can’t fault them for. People  _should_ appreciate Mary’s band.

“Do you think they’ll come out and mingle?” asks Molly.

“They’ll have to if they have a merch table,” says Katrina.

“Should we go wait there, or … ?”

“Just chill for a bit. You don’t want to seem so thirsty! Hit them up after the initial rush when they’re bored.”

Way sooner than he should be, you see Mary stalking over to you. You can hear the excited utterances of the women next to you as he comes close, but they fade into the background as Mary crowds into your space, leaving no room for the Holy Ghost. You gasp as he winds his hand into your hair.

“Fuck. Look at you,” he murmurs into your lips. “Look at this tight little number you’re wearing—I might have to ruin it later.” You’re wearing an electric blue halter dress with a neck collar. Your tits need a little help staying up these days, so instead of being backless, the lace of your razor bra is showing.

He steps back. “And what the fuck are these?” he says as he runs a hand up your stockings and under your dress. You’re wearing dark blue, wide-net tights that have felt flowers sewn on. They were a present from a college friend one Christmas, so they have a few holes due to the passage of time and chub rub—but you just tell people that makes them punk rock. 

When his hand brushes between your legs, he feels your naked cunt. The pièce de résistance of your ensemble is a pair of crotchless panties you have on that were a gag party favor from an anti-Valentine’s soirée a friend-of-friend had thrown.

“Oh shit.” He crowds in close again and spins you 180º so that he’s between you and the bar. His finger traces your slit. “You make me so hot, do you know that?”

He takes your hand and presses it to the growing bulge of his crotch.

“Do you feel that? Do you feel how hot you make me?” He leans down to bite your neck as his finger slips between the lips of your cunt. Your head lolls to the side and you catch eyes with Katrina and Molly, who are quiet and looking pale.

Oh. Right.

You smile at them. “Such. A. Bitch,” you say at them.

Mary brings his head up, one hand still fingering you. “What?”

You smirk at him. “I was telling Kat and Molly over there that your ‘fat and ugly’ girlfriend is a fucking bitch.”

He looks over, seeming to notice them for the first time. He doesn’t even falter.

“She fucking is,” he says as he pulls his hand from your cunt and outstretches it toward them as if to shake their hands. “Hi.”

They don’t answer. They don’t return the gesture.

“No? Ok.”

He turns back to you and puts his other hand on your neck.

“You put your fucking  _pussy_ all over my guitar.” He squeezes a little. “I’m supposed to be doing fucking  _soundcheck_ and tuning my strings and shit, and the only thing I can think about is how much my instrument smells like sex with you.” 

He leans in to whisper in your ear. “I’m going to fuck you so hard, little girl.” 

To them he says, “Excuse me. I have to go fuck the shit out of my girlfriend now.”

As he’s pulling you down the back hall, you look over your shoulder to wink at Katrina and Molly. Mary follows your gaze.

“Thanks for coming out!” he yells back. “Buy a t-shirt!”

His grip around your wrist is insistent—sure to leave a bruise—as he leads you into the greenroom.

A chorus of “Mary, where were you?” and “Mary, what the fuck” ring out as he maneuvers you through the room. You grimace at them as Mary all but pushes you into the adjacent bathroom. He locks the door behind you and ignores the banging and shouts behind it.

“Come here,” he demands.

You move, but not fast enough to satisfy him, so he grabs your arm to pull you to him. He licks his lips before diving down to assault your mouth. You open readily for him as his tongue shoves its way in. He tastes like his bitter makeup.

“I’ve been on edge for goddamned  _hours_ because of you,” he says when he comes up for air. “Our big gig,” he continues as he molds your pliant body stomach down and sideways over the sink, “and I have to spend our entire fucking set smelling your juice on my guitar.”

You giggle and look over your shoulder at him. “You’re  _welcome_ .”

He rucks up your dress and gives your ass a swat. You gasp, and he swats you twice more.

“You fucking bitch,” he says, but there’s no heat to it.

He drapes himself over you and mouths at your ear.

“Tell me I can fucking have you,” he snarls as he ruts against you. “Tell me I get to fuck you now.”

You turn your head again, straining to have your lips touch his.

“Fuck me, Goore,” you rasp.

Magic words spoken, he’s spreading your legs wider and ripping another hole in your stockings. You hear him as he fumbles to undo his belt buckle and drag down his zipper—and then he’s pushing into you without preamble. You gasp at the sudden intrusion as he breathes an  _Oh fuck_ into your skin. He wraps one arm around your middle and the other he braces against the wall as he begins to pound into you.

You scrabble at the wall for leverage as you squirm to find the right angle. Mary doesn’t let up at all.

“You feel so good. So tight, so wet. Fuck, is this what you wanted? Me half-crazed out of my mind?”

_Well yeah_ , you think,  _something like_ . What comes out of your mouth is a long moan, and you squeeze your muscles hard around him.

“Shit,  _fuck_ !” he cries out as he almost stutters to stop. You push back into him, your clit throbbing and desperate for pressure. 

“You asked for it,” he growls, He grabs the meat of your hips—fingers digging into your love handles—and begins to slam himself into you faster and faster. The new angle is hitting your G-spot deliciously and you cry out,

“Oh fuck, yes Mary—RIGHT THERE DON’T STOP.”

He’s making little grunting noises as he slams into you, and you know you’re going to be pretty sore later—but right now you’re trying desperately to get a hand between your legs so you relieve the heavy pressure pooling between your legs.

He’s wheezing when he says, “I’m gonna—I’m gonna fucking cum. Ughn, take it,  _bitch_ .” And then he thrusts into so hard he hits your cervix and you cry out. He’s growling  _Uhn uhn uhn_ as he empties into you, thrusts slowing. When he’s done, he drapes over you, kissing behind your ear. The shift stings a little, and you flinch slightly.

“Shit. Did I hurt you?” he asks, as he straightens up and eases his soft cock out of you, petting down your back.

You turn your head so he can hear you. “Maybe a little?” you say. “But I’ll forgive you if you finish me off.”

He complies quickly, sprawling under you so he can lap at you with his tongue while a finger gently enters you and presses at your G-spot. You let out a loud, shaky moan at the sudden dual sensation—you’re still pretty worked up and you see bursts behind your eyes. He works you up to a full precipice—while you clutch against the sink and pant into your arms—until your climax sparks and breaks. You clench around his finger, and your pussy pops against his relentlessly flicking tongue. 

He slows down when your body slumps and you start twitching at the feeling of his tongue on your now oversensitive nub; then he wraps himself around one of your legs—stroking your inner thighs—as he waits for you to come down from your orgasmic high. When you do, he stands up and peels you off the sink. After that, the two of you hurriedly clean each other up—there’s a green room full of annoyed people bitching at you through the door, after all. 

“Hey,” he says as you allow him to kiss the back of your neck. “I’m in so much shit. I really need to pull my weight with the equipment … but I’ll see you back out there in a bit?

You turn to kiss him; his paint is smeared all to hell, which means it’s probably all over you. Smoothing down your dress, you spin around with arms wide.

“Do I look like I lost a fight with the makeup section of Hot Topic?”

He snorts. “You do, actually,” he says while crowding into you. “But don’t ask me to clean it off. I want everyone to know who fucked you.”

You push him away. “You’re fucking gross, Goore.”

He gives you a vulpine smile. “You adore it.” 

(You do.)

You steel yourself to the walk of shame through the greenroom—more than just Mary’s bandmates are in there—putting on a devil-may-care attitude like a cloak. Head held high, you leave the bathroom, smirking at the men particularly like the cat who got creamed. There’s some eye rolling, a few wolf-whistles, and an ironic slow cap. A woman in another group raises her hand up, and you high-five it, before spinning around to curtsey as you leave the room.

When you get back to the bar, the two women are gone and there’s someone in your spot. You make your apologies as you retrieve your stuff, and you order another beer for yourself and a whiskey shot + chaser for Mary, before settling your tab. The next band has been playing for a bit and your beer is half empty by the time Mary and his bandmates materialize again. They’re smiling and talking to the fans who begin to mob them. Mary shakes a few hands and signs a few CDs before making a beeline to you.

“You’re a mess,” he says as you hand him his drinks. He shoots the whiskey immediately, slamming the shot glass down onto the bar.

“Well,  _someone_ , got impatient,” you retort.

He leans in close. “Can you blame me? Fuck. What  _did_ you do to my guitar. I should be pissed.”

“I did exactly what you think I did. Got hot thinking of you, decided to show my appreciation.”

“ _Fuck_ ,” he rumbles in your ear. His free hand starts to slip up your thigh again. “Do you wanna—”

He’s interrupted when one of his bandmates comes over.

“Christ, Mary. Leave the poor girl alone for a second. We gotta man the merch table. Amps don’t pay for themselves.”

Mary sighs, his hand slipping from under your dress to around your waist.

“C’mon,” he says as he leads you to their table with his very put upon-looking bandmates. He arranges you on his lap, much to their consternation.

“The girls are our biggest fans, Mary! We need to keep up the fantasy that we’re available!”

“She should be with the other girlfriends!”

“I don’t give a shit,” Mary spits. “This isn’t a fucking K-pop group. They can deal with us having actual lives. If they only like our image, then what’s the point?”

You’d wanted to beg off at first—feeling a little like ornamentation for all to see—but you’re pretty pliant from the beer and the orgasm, so you let Mary keep you where you are. You have a few more shots and lite beer chaser as the night wears on, and you get into joking around with their fans and even one or two of his other band members—your ribald humor fits right in. You’re well into a lengthy discussion with the woman from the greenroom about pockets when Mary taps your arm for your attention.

“We’re gonna pack it in for tonight, Suey.”

“Ok. Do you wanna head back to mine, or … ?

Mary sighs. 

“We’re apparently having a ‘band meeting,’ so I might not be able to tonight … but tomorrow?”

You feel a stab of disappointment before pushing it down. “No, I get it. Duty calls.” You lean down to whisper in his ear. “I’m going to go home and touch myself while thinking about you. I want you to think about that later when you’re alone.”

His hand squeezes your thigh hard.

“Can you do that for me? Can you be a good boy?”

“Yes, ma’am,” he says softly.

* * *

The next morning when you wake, you check your phone to find that you have a text from Mary: it’s a blurry picture of his half-hard cock drooling cum. You text him back full of praise.

When you get yourself set up for the day on your laptop, your first order of business is to make a folder entitled “SueysSpankBankFodder” next to Mary’s. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's ok if you think they're assholes. They're assholes.


	13. Whoops!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mary makes bad decisions and Suey is exasperated about it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fic tags updated

You knew Mary was going to some kind of after party for opening a Battle of the Bands (which you were explicitly _not_ invited to because _apparently_ Mary and you can’t be trusted together), so you’d just assumed you wouldn't be seeing him.

You’re in the middle of making some tea when you hear a few thumps outside of and a scrabbling at your door. You tense—wondering if you should go for Masher—but then the door is banging open, and Mary is stumbling through, giggling … and behind him trail two women, similarly laughing. 

You freeze.

You watch Mary as he tries to hang up his leather jacket—he misses, and it falls to the floor.

“Whoops,” he says, and the women laugh. He bends over unsteadily to grab the leather, then rights himself even as he lists into a wall trying to hang it up successfully. When he sees you, he’s face brightens as he holds his arms out. He’s still in his bloody shirt and ripped jeans.

“There’s my baby doll!”

When you don’t move, he gestures you to his embrace with his hands. Your eyes flick to the two women (who seem to be holding each other up)—their black hair is done if a little disheveled; both faces in differing executions of heavy, winged liner and fading red lipstick; one is in a black mod dress with studs on her boob cage and the other is in a fishnet top with black zipper jeans; and they’re both in boots with heels. You’re in the hoodie covered with food stains—the hood not only on your head, but cinched tight and tied under your chin—and your batman sleep pants with the hole from the crotch halfway down your thigh, since your laundry basket only made it as far as outside your bathroom door, because: ugh, later.

“_Suey_,” he whines.

The saucepan makes a gurgling noise behind you, and you make a sound of surprise. You hold up a finger to him, then turn to carefully pour the bubbling liquid into your mug—you also use the opportunity to shove your hood down and run your fingers through your ratty hair, trying your best to fluff it. There’s a low murmur of voices behind you, which you do your best to ignore.

When you finally do turn back around, Mary and the two women have moved from the doorway to your living area—he’s looking at you expectantly, and their heads are swiveling all around as they sway into each other. Reluctantly, you shuffle over to Mary, trying your best to keep your thighs squashed together.

Just when you’re within reach, Mary pulls you into him, rocking the two of you. He’s still in his full stage makeup, and he smells like he’s been sweating under stage lights all night. It’s not necessarily a nice smell, but it’s definitely one you’ve come to associate with him.

“This is her!” 

The gaze of the two women snap to you, and you tense, waiting for them to appraise you … but they just grin at you. Boob Cage lunges at you—well, lunges as though she’s stuck in molasses—and takes your hand.

“Oh my god,” she says in a nasally-affection, “you do exist. We thought Mary was being grumpy.”

“Uh …”

Fishnets leans forward precariously, and you’re afraid she’s going to topple them both.

“Look at you. So cozy! My feet hurt _so much_.”

You quickly glance up at Mary, but he’s looking down at you with sleepy eyes.

“I-I mean … you could take your shoes off?”

“Oh my god, that’s so nice of you!” says Boob Cage.

As if their strings were cut, the two of them droop down to pull at their laces, and your hands go up reflexively in case they lurch.

“Why don’t you sit on the couch while you do that?” you grimace.

You watch as they seem to register the couch, but then Mary is tugging you toward your bedroom and rubbing his face in your hair. You allow it only because it’ll give you a chance to interrogate him (and change).

Once through your door, you round on him, but suddenly he’s kissing you—his mouth tasting like skunk spray. You push him away with a hand to his chest, and he goes easily, as if made of paper.

“You’re hot,” he says languidly as he sways.

You sandwich his face in between your palms, despite the transfer of cake makeup; you peer into his eyes and see that his pupils are blown wide. You’re no stranger to Mary showing up at the wrong end of drunk or after toking with his band—but this is something clearly different. Maybe later you’ll be angry, but right now you feel the need to caretake.

“What did you take?” you ask, trying to catch his gaze.

“_Pssh_,” he says, his hands clasping limply at your wrists. “Just a shared joint.”

“Just one?”

Mary stumbles back a bit, catching himself on your dresser and giggling.

“Yeah.”

“From Marty?”

Mary’s brows furrow.

“No,” he says slowly. “One of Moxie’s friends.”

“Moxie?”

“Yeah. Moxie and Roxie.” He sweeps a hand in the direction of your living area.

“Wait—” you say, suddenly distracted, “their names are Moxie and Roxie?”

“Goth names.” Mary makes a dismissive gesture. “They do _everything_ together. Best friends since high school or something.”

He sashays toward you again, and you stop him with a hand.

“Ok … but why are they _here_, Mare?”

His arms still come out and encircle your waist.He pulls you into him and rubs his face on yours.

“Had to prove ‘em wrong. Had to show ‘em my hot girlfriend.”

You push him away and move toward your chair pile to paw through your clothes.

“Well, a little head’s up would’ve been nice, Mare. I look like a hobo.”

He presses into your back, his hands groping at your curves through your clothes.

“You look soft and welcoming.”

Mary presses kisses then bites to your neck, but you continue to search through clothes mountain. You extract a pair of lounge pants that you don’t wear because they’re too tight around your belly despite their softness, but at least there are no gaping holes in them. You pull two of Mary’s large tees out before discarding them—no one wears Mary’s shirts but you. Mary’s octopus arms encumber clothes searching, but you manage to find two oversized shirts of your own for Moxie and Roxie.

He squints at you. “Why do they need clothes.”

You sigh. “Mare, they’re not going anywhere else tonight, and they might as well be comfortable.”

His lips are hot and wet on your ear. “Oh? And where are they going to sleep?”

You push him away and glare at him. “Oh the couch! If they share ‘everything’ then surely they can share the fucking couch. Christ, I’m going to put some coffee on.”

Making sure to pull the hem of your hoodie down over your hips of the new lounge pants, you leave your room. Shirts in hand, you walk out into your living area, confused at first when you don’t see Moxie and Roxie. Mary stumbles after you as you investigate further. 

“Oh!” you exclaim as you peer around the couch to find Moxie and Roxie sans clothes and going at it on your floor. You watch for a moment as they kiss and rub against each other before you realize that you’re being creepy.

“Just putting some sleep shirts here!” you squeak as you toss them to drape over the arm of your couch. When you turn, it’s into the solid wall of Mary’s flat chest.

“Mmm,” he rumbles. “That gives me ideas.” He presses you into the island that separates your kitchen area from your couch.

_Oh for fuck’s sake_.

“Mary,” you say in your Teacher Voice, “please go and wait for me in my room.”

“K,” he says, and then he swerves and weaves back to your room.

You press your head into your counter until you hear a particularly throaty moan, and then you sigh before making your way into your bathroom. Once there, you take a moment to sit on the closed toilet, head in hands, before performing your nightly ablutions.

When you try to make your way into your room quietly, you end up tripping over your laundry basket—but the only noise that’s made is your grunt as you fall on top of it as the soft mesh collapses. You stay there for a moment, contemplating your life choices, before scrambling into your room.

You find Mary naked and propped up against your wall, his hand flying between his legs as he jacks his hard cock. As he hears the door click shut behind you, his face turns toward you.

“_Please_ ,” he whines. “Please touch me. _Suey_.”

Sighing, you clamber onto your bed and squeeze in between Mary’s back and the wall, wrapping your arms around his waist. You hook your chin over his shoulder.

“That’s it, buddy,” you breathe.

Mary leans his head back onto your shoulder as he continues to jack his cock. His mouth drops open and he pants. You snake your hand down and start rolling his balls in your hand. Mary jerks against you and grunts. You bite at his shoulder, and Mary freezes—his balls tightening and his chest heaving—before his hand continues, and then he’s spurting cum up his stomach.

“There you go, there you go,” you chant as he twitches in your arms. You at his face as he becomes limp. When you look over at his face, you see that he’s passed out, and you roll your eyes. You manage to extract yourself, and you make yourself useful by grabbing the cum towel to clean him up as best as possible.

You kick off the lounge pants and wiggle out of the hoodie—so that you’re just in one of Mary’s tees (it’s how Mary likes you)—before situating you both into a comfortable sleeping cocoon with you as the big spoon wrapped around Mary.

* * *

It’s a fitful sleep at best. To be honest, you’re a little wary of having two strangers unsupervised in your space, and you keep jerking awake, your dreams full of burglars and slasher villains. You’re sure it’s probably fine—but you’d rather not be sorry, so when you flail awake again a little after 6am, you decide to just get up. Mary doesn’t seem to have moved at all.

After tucking the covers in around him, you pull on your shortie shorts before leaving your room for the bathroom—where you flip your head upside down to brush your hair out before giving a faint line to your eye, which you smudge. Except for the dandruff you brush off your shoulders, you’re pleased with the result.

When you tiptoe the 5 steps into your living space, you see Moxie and Roxie tangled together on your floor—one pressed up against the couch and the other half under your coffee table. The sleep shirts still hang limply from your couch armrest. Sighing at the laundry you really _are_ going to have to do later, you tug the afghan off the back of your couch and surreptitiously drape it over the two sleeping women.

Opening your fridge, you survey the contents you’re willing to spare. With a whole unopened “mega” pack of bacon, you’re feeling bacon rich—but you’re running up against your egg allowance for the week. You decide that at 2 eggs per person, you can get away with 6 if you cut them with some milk.

You find your _very strong_ mug of tea on the counter from the night before—which you gulp half of—before getting a coffee drip going. Then you start frying up 4 slices of bacon—1 per person—expecting the smell to wake the household. When it doesn’t, you just shrug and start whisking the eggs and milk with a fork. When the bacon is done, you lay the strips out on a folded piece of brown paper bag before carefully adding the egg mixture to the frying pan. You’re not magnanimous enough, though, to add even the fake cheese that Mary prefers.

Just about when you’ve judged the scramble to be done, you hear Mary moving about in your room. You see him shuffling—squinty-eyed and hair half squashed—in your robe (and while it wraps around him better, it does fall a little short) from your room. He encounters the laundry basket like a Sim: stopping in front of it for a beat, then walking around it and into your bathroom. You begin to plate the food—a dollop of eggs, toast, and a strip of bacon each.

You can hear more than see the girls begin to move about—there’s some knocking about and a quiet murmuring of voices.

“My fucking head. The fuck are we?” you hear Fishnets yawn.

“Fuck me. Weren’t we with Mary?”

“Yeah, but this isn’t Mary’s.”

“You’re at his girlfriend’s,” you say loudly.

There’s a thump and an _Ow_ before you see two heads pop up out of the edge of your afghan.

“There are shirts,” you say, pointing toward the armrest.

There’s a lot of shuffling about, and you turn your back under the pretense of dealing with the coffee pouring. When you hear the movement behind you stop, you turn back around. Moxie and Roxie are standing awkwardly on the other side of the island, swimming in your shirts, eyes wide and looking peaked. You note that their gray pallor and red eyes probably aren’t due to embarrassment. Smiling—hopefully invitingly—you slide the food plates and mugs toward them.

“Here,” you say, and they take both slowly. 

With shaky hands, they sip the coffee. They look at each other, a whole conversation passing between them before Mary comes bustling out of the bathroom.

He looks up sluggishly before he spots Moxie and Roxie—and then he freezes.

“Good morning, Mare Bear,” you beam at him. “I have eggs and coffee for you.”

His bleary eyes dart between you and the girls. You hold up a coffee mug, and he continues toward you—albeit cautiously. When he reaches you, you turn your cheek to him and point it, saccharin smile in place.

“Uh … morning—baby doll,” he murmurs as he pecks your cheek and takes the proffered coffee.

Moxies and Roxie are giving him sideways glances as he takes his place next to you, still in your robe.

“So,” you start as you hand him a food plate, “what did you crazy kids get up to last night?”

They all look at each other shiftily, hands wrapped around coffee mugs. You dive into your breakfast.

“Dig in—please,” you chirp. “I don’t know what you guys took, but you all look like death warmed over. I think a little grease will help.”

Mary squints his eyes at you.

“Took?”

You squint back. “You guys were high as fucking kites.”

He keeps your gaze. “We didn’t ‘take’ anything, Suey. Just shared a joint.”

“Uhhh …” comes from Boob Cage.

You turn to her.

Boob Cage is looking chagrined. “It might have been laced with something.”

“Roxie!” gasps Moxie.

Roxie turns to Moxie. “I’m _sorry_ . It’s from Kincaid … but it was _free_.”

“I thought we agreed to stop going to him after the Unfortunate Incident!” Moxie pinches the bridge of her nose. “You dumb fucking bitch.”

“What was the ‘Unfortunate Incident’?” you ask.

Roxie looks at you with big eyes as Moxie looks resigned.

“Kincaid sent a girl to the hospital. I guess he laced her joint with rat poison and meth or something.”

“I thought that was just a rumor,” murmurs Mary.

Moxie shakes her head. “I don’t know the girl personally … but one of her friends told me. He spent the night with her in the ER.” She turns to Roxie. “Which is why we don’t fucking get drugs from fucking Kincaid.”

Roxie just hangs her head. You feel Mary slip his arm around your waist.

“Well,” you say, “please eat some food. It sounds like you guys could use something solid in your stomachs.”

The lot of you start picking at the eggs and bacon. Moxie looks at Mary and then at you.

“So … what happened last night?”

You feel Mary tense, so you lean into him.

“You guys showed up pretty out of it, so I went to get you something to sleep in. When I came back out you were having sex with each other on the floor, so Mary and I left you to it and went to bed.”

“Oh, wow. Hey sorry. We were all having a pretty good time at the venue, I guess we wanted to include you?” She laughs.

“Mary’s always been lots of fun,” quips Roxie brightly, letting out a soft _Oof_ when Moxie elbows her.

“Not _that_ much fun,” says Moxie hurriedly.

You smile at them. “Oh, I know. The night we met, he fucked me in the men’s room.”

Mary—who’s only been getting tenser, his arm tightening further—looks down at you and adds, “Only because someone was fucking impatient.”

Roxies laughs. “Oh yeah! One time—”

Mary slams his hand down on the counter.

“OKAY. No need for a trip down memory lane.”

Moxie is clearly trying to communicate “Shut the fuck up” to Roxie with her eyes. Roxie furrows her brows.

“Why not? I thought we were—”

“I’m sure _Mary’s girlfriend_ isn’t interested in parties from _forever ago_.”

“Oh my god, that’s right. I—” Roxie stops. “Oh! That’s why we came here!” She looks at you. “We thought Mary was just trying to blow us off.”

Moxie tilts her head. “Oh yeah – that is right.” She laughs and turns to you. “Cuz he totally shut this down.” She gestures between herself and Roxie, then seems to realize what she’s just said and grimaces.

Roxie nods. “Yeah, he’s usually—”

“He’s usually nowhere near us. Like, at all. Ever. Mary, who? I don’t know her.” Moxie gives a nervous giggle.

You cant your head up to Mary, who looks like he wants to leave his body and exist on the spirit plane. 

“You told me you were a virgin.”

Mary gives you his grump face as Moxie spits out her coffee all over her eggs.

“OM MY GOD, I’m _so_ sorry!” she says as she wipes her chin and you hand her a paper towel.

“It’s fine. Eat, please.”

Moxie and Roxie get back to their food—though Roxie looks like she wants to ask a question and knows she’s not allowed. You look at Mary’s plate and notice he hasn’t touched anything.

“If you don’t eat some of that, I’m going to feed it to you myself.”

He gives you a look like that’s actually an appealing proposal, so you hen him to the rusting cafe table and chair. You settle sideways onto his lap before scraping some eggs onto a triangle of toast, which you bring to his lips.

“Here,” you say as you cup one hand under the bread, and Mary takes a bite.

Despite the (now silent) presence of the Oxies, Mary doesn’t seem self-conscious about losing himself in eating breakfast from your hand. Out of the corner of your eye, you notice that the two women are looking over at you two now and then—but you pay them no mind. Mary finishes all the food—occasionally saying _Bacon_ when he wants a bite from that—and washes it down with the coffee himself. 

Once done, he wraps his arms around your middle and rests his head on your shoulder. You carefully sink your fingers into his stiff hair so that you can lightly massage his scalp. When you look up you can practically see the hearteyes emanating from the Oxies, but you raise a finger to your lips.

When Mary shivers, you register that he’s still only in your robe, so you _tsk_ at him.

“Go put some clothes on before you freeze.”

He sighs. “Yes, ma’am.”

You flush a little, wondering if the Oxies heard him, but you don’t look over at them.

With Mary gone and breakfast over, the Oxies begin the process of searching for their things—a slight scavenger hunt ensuing when a left shoe is found to be MIA, and which is eventually located under the couch.

As you hear Mary shuffle behind you, Moxie says, “Would you mind terribly if we wore these home?” She plucks at the top of yours she’s wearing. “You know how it is putting on last night’s clothes.”

You’re about to tell them _Sure_ , despite your reluctance—knowing you’ll never see the tops again—when Mary steps in (now in a <strike> fresh </strike> different shirt and a pair of your sleep pants) and wraps his arms around your waist.

“Let’s leave Suey her clothes, guys.”

“Oh yeah … sure, right,” says Moxie, deflating a little.

“But you can use the shower first. If you want,” you’re quick to add, a thought that comes seemingly out of nowhere—it’s not like you _want_ them to accept. “There are towels in … uh …” You look at Mary—who’s looking at you like you’ve lost your damn mind—and ask, “Are there towels?”

He shakes his head. “I didn’t do any this week, which means nothing’s clean, because heaven forbid you wash anything.”

You scrunch your face at him. “It’s better when you do it. You know I’ll just forget to put them in the dryer, and then they get all musty. And I got the basket real close!”

“You’re a disaster.”

“Oh my god—you guys are _so cute_,” says Roxie.

“No we’re not,” the two of you say in unison. Roxie just beams at you.

“Ok, then,” Moxie sighs wistfully. “Well, just go change. C’mon, Bitch.”

When they’re both in the bathroom, Mary looks down at you.

“What the fuck.”

You wince. “I don’t know … old habits die hard, I guess.”

“What old habits?”

“Oh. Um. Growing up? Hostessing. It used to be one of my ‘duties.’ My parents threw a lot of soirées. It was part of my ‘training’ or something. For when I was supposed to throw parties.” 

You flick your hand as if to wave the information away. Mary squints down at you as if he’d like to inquire further, but then the bathroom door opens, and the Oxies emerge looking fresher even with their rumpled clothes and bare faces.

“Ok, well! I guess we’ll be going then!” chirps Moxie.

Roxie comes forward and grabs your hands. “Thanks _so much_ for the food.”

“Oh uh, no problem.”

“You guys really are _so cute_.” And then before you know what’s happening, she’s in between the two of you and snapping a selfie.

“Oh, ok …” you say as Mary belatedly puts his hand up.

“C’mon, Rox,” hisses Moxies as she pulls her friend away.

“What? We have lots of pictures of Mary.”

Mary presses his fingers into his eye sockets.

As the two of them wobble into their shoes, you realize that they showed up without coats last night.

Shit.

“Uh, so … your coats.”

The two of them look at each other, then at your hooks where their coats aren’t hanging.

“Are they … not here?” asks Moxie.

You grimace at her. “I’m afraid you weren’t wearing them when you came in.”

Mary starts, but you put a hand on his arm. “Your jacket’s here.”

Roxie looks at her friend. “Oh shit. We must have left them at the club again.”

Moxie sighs. “We really need to stop doing that.”

“We’ll have to take a cab.” Roxie suddenly makes a pained face. “My wristlet with all my cards is in my coat pocket.”

Moxie’s face pales as she scrabbles in her tiny purse. “I only have $10—and you know my card is maxed out.”

There’s a pregnant moment where all four of your stare at each other.

You sigh. “I think I might have some mad money stashed about?”

“Hold on,” says Mary. He disappears into your room and reappears with his wallet.

“Mary, no … I can—” you start, but he shrugs you off.

“I got it, it’s fine.”

Mary fishes out two twenties from his worn wallet and offers the bills to Moxie. She eagerly plucks them both from his fingers, smiling.

“Thanks, Mare Bear,” she quips.

You bristle, and Mary snaps, “Don’t call me that.”

Moxie shrinks away a little. “Oh …ok. I guess we’ll just …” She throws a thumb over her shoulder as she backs toward the door.

Roxie smiles and waves. “Bye, guys!

They finally leave, closing the door behind them, and you slump. You turn to Mary.

“I can’t deal with this right now. I’m going back to bed.”

You’ve just about made yourself comfortable under your covers when Mary appears in the doorway.

“Am I allowed to join you, or …?”

“Just don’t talk.” You lift your head. “And no funny business—I’m not in the mood.”

You feel him crawl into bed with you, and then he tentatively wraps an arm around your waist. When you don’t eat it off, he wiggles closer and presses into your back.

“You’re still mad,” he murmurs into your ear.

“I’m not mad.”

“You seemed fine when—”

“_Mary_,” you snap, turning toward him slightly. “Shut up.”

“Yeah, ok.”

* * *

When you wake up again, it’s a little after noon and you’re sprawled over Mary’s chest.

“Hey,” he says.

“Mm,” you rumble. “You been awake this whole time?”

“Nah. Not too long.”

You’re content to continue to lie there and to suck Mary’s heat out of his body and into your own, but he’s apparently been waiting for you.

“So. You’re mad.”

You let out a heavy sigh.

“I’m not mad. I just wish you’d take better care of yourself and not bring groupies into my home with you. Rat poison? Jesus, Mary.”

You can feel Mary tense under you.

“Oh, what? Like you take care of yourself?"

You lift up to look at him “Excuse me?”

“Can we talk about the pile of mail that lives in the corner? Or the fact that you never have clean clothes? Or how you’d rather let the garbage overflow than just taking it out to the chute? You don’t think I worry about any that? Sometimes I’m afraid to not see you for too long, afraid of what state I’ll find you in when I come back. If we’re gonna talk about shit, how ‘bout we talk about _that_?”

You sit up. “What the fuck, Mary?! You’ve known me for—what?—6 months? When I’ve been living on my own for 5yrs? I suddenly need a big, bad, scary Mary to take care of me?! And how the fuck is any of that even close to accidentally taking meth or whatever? Yeah, I can see how similar that is to unopened mail.”

He sits up too. “That’s just a rumor! You’re really going to take _Moxie’s_ word on it? It could’ve just been really strong weed!”

You cross your arms. “You guys were definitely on something stronger than just weed, Mary. What if something happened! I wouldn’t’ve been able to help, and you guys were beyond useless.” 

“Oh so, you’re the morality police or something?”

“I’m the ‘at-least-know-what-you’re-putting-in-your-body’ police!”

“Christ—you’re acting as if I took an unknown substance for funsies from some sketchy dude in a dark alley. It was a _joint_ from two girls I know.”

“Oh yes, it was made _very_ clear how well you know them.”

“Is that what this is about, then? My former fuck buddies? I thought we were past our sexual histories!”

“You brought them into _my home_! You suggested we fuck them together!”

“No I fucking didn’t.”

“You _did_ . _Twice_.”

Mary suddenly looks unsure at your vehemence.

“Well I was—”

“High off some unknown substance?”

His face contorts again.

“Shit fucking happens. I didn’t fucking do it on purpose.”

“So it’s just ok? It’s ok you didn’t know what you took? Ok that what you took made you think it was fine to bring the Oxies here?”

“I—the who?”

“The Oxies.” You make an impatient gesture at him. “Moxie and Roxie.”

“Well. That’s clever, but I’m too mad at you right now to be amused by it.”

“You’re mad? _You’re mad_ ?! In what world do you show up high as fuck with groupies, unannounced, into _my_ place and get to be mad _at me_?”

“Fine, maybe it was dumbass high logic, but it made a sort of sense.”

“Fucking _how_?”

“They—” He looks down, rubbing at his wrists. “Fine, they hit on me, ok? Yes, I’ve been with them in the past. But I told them no, ok? And at first they were being real pushy, like ‘why not?’. So I told them I had a girl. And they were just. They thought I was blowing them off because: who’d wanna make that kind of commitment to me? So I thought I’d show them. That you were real. That you were awesome.”

“Well … poop.”

Mary raises an eyebrow at you. “Poop?”

“Yes: poop. I still think you made some pretty shitty decisions, but I can’t deny your high logic.”

“Oh. Well. Who wins, then?”

You twist your lips. “I don’t think either of us win. I think that’s the point.”

“Well that’s fucking unsatisfying. Now what?”

You throw your hands up. “I don’t know! I can’t even make breakfast! We already had it!”

Mary thinks for a moment. “You … could make lunch?”

“Lunch … yeah,” you say nodding. “I could do that.”

“I could help?”

* * *

Lunch is a small affair. You heat up a can of minestrone soup while Mary makes “garlic bread”—by sprinkling some garlic powder on buttered bread—in the oven. The oven warms up your small space considerably—which is good because you’d shoved the afghan into the laundry basket. (_“You got it so far, Suey. _So far_ … you only had one more step.”_ **“I’m telling you—I still would have forgotten it in the washer.”**) You instruct Mary to leave the oven door open ajar—to let the residual heat waft out—and then the two of you plop down on the couch with lunch.

“I can’t believe you gave them cab money,” you say as you purposefully slurp your soup (much to Mary’s annoyance).

“Well, did you think I was going to let _you_ give them money?” he asks as he dips his bread in until it gets soggy ( _disgusting!_).

You shrug. “I just wanted them to leave.” You laugh. “It kind of reminded me of when you got that cab for me, though. The bathroom night.”

“That’s what made me think of giving them the cash, actually."

You smile at him. “To be honest, I didn’t think you’d go for it when I asked you to pay for me.”

“That’s because you thought I was a fuck boy.”

You give him a wry glance, and Mary shoves his hand in your face.

“Don’t be a bitch.”

The two of you finish your food and lie down on the couch tangled together, Mary grumbling about the lack of a cover. He runs his fingers through your hair and then begins to kiss you—a soft press to your lips, then to the apple of each cheek, and then an attempt to kiss your eyelids that you stymie by turning your head with a noise of disapproval. Undeterred, he works his way down to your neck—adding his teeth—as a hand snakes under your shirt, running lightly over your belly before continuing up to its real objective. He grabs a handful of one of your tits, and rolls it around in his palm.

Despite where his head’s at, yours is somewhere else entirely.

“What are their real names?”

“Hmm?”

“The Oxies? Do you know their real names?”

“No, why would I know that?”

“Pillow talk.”

He looks up at you, his ministrations stopping. “Jesus, Suey.”

“What?”

“Can we not talk about the Oxies right now? Or, like, ever?”

“All right.” You trace circles on his back through his shirt as he gets back to it. “Should I have a Goth name?”

“What?”

“Should I have a Goth name?”

“No, I heard—no. You already have a Goth name.”

“I do?”

“Yeah. ‘Suey’.”

You scoff. “That’s just the nickname you gave me.”

“It’s ironic. I’m very clever, see.”

“Whatever.”

His hand slips down and presses in between your leg in pulses, and you gasp, your hand sliding down to grab at his ass.

“Mmm—now I’ve got your attention.”

He brings his hand back up to suck his fingers into his mouth before he’s making use of the gash in your pants to slip them in between your lips. He’s just started rubbing at you in earnest, but it’s not what you want.

“Oh fuck … eat me, Mary,” you pant.

Mary doesn’t even hesitate, he just slides down your body—yanking the material out of the way—and wiggling his tongue in between your lips to lap steadily at your nub. You moan, grabbing what tufts of his hair you can. His tongue laps and presses and taps, and you rock into him as you gasp with each movement. He pulls you by your thighs into his mouth, and he inserts a finger into you.

“Oh god, another,” you cry out, fingers clenching into the roots of his hair.

He pulls his one finger out, and then swiftly reinserts it with another. You make an embarrassingly high pitched moan and clench around his digits, head lolling back into the couch. Encouraged, Mary laps at your clit faster as he thrusts his fingers in and out of you, angling them until you twitch at contact with your G-spot.

You’re panting and squeaking out little noises of pleasure as Mary builds and coaxes your orgasm—pointing his tongue so he can press at your clit, then relaxing it so he can swirl around it before flattening the muscle to run it roughly over the growing hardness. You can feel your climax growing at your clit throbs and the sweetness of the pleasure starts to expand. It starts deep in your cervix and spreads outwards, little sparks stoking the fire at each flick of his tongue until you feel your pussy tightening around his fingers.

“Don’t fucking stop!” you cry out.

He _tap tap taps_ at your G-spot, and you find yourself arching off the couch with a moan before your climax breaks, bursts of purple behind your eyes as you go _Ah ah ah ah_ in time to the pulse and spasm of your cunt.

Mary knows exactly what you like, giving you slow, languorous laps and gentle thrusts of his fingers as you ride your orgasm out. You’re sloppy and boneless, and Mary nibbles the inside of your thigh before tilting his head to look up at you, head pillowed on your other thigh.

“Can I fuck your tits?”

You laugh. “Yeah, ok.”

Mary wipes his mouth off with the edge of your ripped clothes, and you _tetch_ at him.

“Go get the lube,” you say as you begin to squirm out of your shirt.

Mary—who’d been just about to yank his (obscenely-tented) pants down, whines.

“It’s in the other room, can’t we just—”

“I know you could give a fuck, but you’re not spitting on my tits, Mare.”

He pouts, but scampers off to get your bottle of lube. You’re out of the band tee, your nipples beginning to pebble, before he comes back with the item in hand.

“You need to keep better track of your shit. I found it under a pile of what I think you said were _clean_ clothes,” he says as he set it on the coffee table.

“You moved my piles?” You frown.

“I _lifted_ the bottom of one and _carefully _extracted this.”

“Because I know where everything is.”

“Mhm,” says Mary as he shimmies out of your sleep pants, his cock now only half hard. He climbs back onto the couch—straddling your waist—and reaches down with a dry hand to fondle each tit and thumb each nipple. Turning, he gives the bottle a few pumps to fill his hand with the lube, which he generously applies to your sternum and breasts.

A few more pumps, and he’s coating his cock—stuttering out a grunt with eyes closed—as he strokes himself, with wet squelches, back to full hardness. Once satisfied, his eyes open, and he wipes the excess off on your chest.

You make a face at him, which he ignores.

“Hold your fucking tits together,” he rumbles lowly.

As Mary positions his cock, you squish your tits together, fingers interlacing for a better grip. Before you’re even settled, Mary starts thrusting, the shiny, pink head of his cock appearing and disappearing from your cleavage. You look at him, but his gaze too is fixated on where your décolletage swallows his member. Your eyes are drawn to watching his stomach muscles contract as he thrusts.

Mary starts thrusting faster, exclaiming “So soft!” in between grunts. 

Because of the lube, your fingers are starting to slip, causing Mary to grumble whenever you readjust.

“Keep them tight!” he pants.

You decide to add in some dirty talk to distract him.

“_Mmm_ … you like my tits?”

“Oh, fuck yeah.”

“They’re so big and soft.”

Mary grunts. “So big.”

“Do my great big tits feel good around your cock?”

“Fuck, so good.”

“Do you like how your cock looks in between them?”

Mary speeds up. “Fuck—your tits are so big. I can’t even see my dick.”

“_Mmm_, I bet you can’t wait to cum all over me. Maybe I’ll catch some in my mouth.”

Mary’s eyes close and his jaw drops.

“Oh fuck, oh fuck—I’m gonna cum on your tits.”

You think he means that once he shoots his load, your tits will be covered, but instead he draws back and starts jacking his dick. You squeeze your breasts—which are now shiny with lube—and then Mary’s grunting as he shoots his release over each one. After he’s that satisfied he’s squeezed all the cum out, he settles his weight onto your abdomen and slumps.

“Fuck,” he says as he runs his fingers through the mess. “You look so hot covered in my cum.”

“Your kink is showing.”

He smirks at you. “Mebbe.”

Taking your discarded sleep pants, he wipes off your chest before snuggling into you. When you glower at him, he sighs.

“Jesus, I’ll do a load before I leave, ok? Can we just lie like this for half a second?”

“Yeah ok,” you say.

This is more Mary’s thing than it is yours, but you’ve learned to enjoy it as long as he respects your time limits. Despite your sticky chest, Mary presses his face into your clavicle, a hand resting on a tit, and one leg over yours. You card your fingers through his hair and press a kiss or two into the crown of his head—happy to make him happy.

“What’re your plans?” you ask after a bit. “I wasn’t really expecting to see you today.”

You feel Mary huff against your skin.

“I really should go back. Not that any of us thought we’d be working today, but we’re trying to ride the holiday momentum.” He looks up at you. “I might be a little scarce, but it should break before New Year’s.”

“Ok.” You think for a moment. “I’ll be away for a couple of days for Christmas … but I’ll be back for New Year’s.”

You’d accepted an invitation to spend a few days with a few college friends at a mutual friend’s house warming extravaganza—he married a rich girl who could hang, and they’re going all out for their tree trimming. You’re cautiously hopeful at seeing the gang again. You hope no one loses a hand.

“Family?” he asks cautiously. You explain to him. “Ah. Yeah. The band is doing its usual thing. But … there’s a New Year’s party?”

“Ok.”

Mary traces his finger up and down your torso. “You could … come if you wanted?”

You bury your nose in his hair. “I could do that, Mare.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

You feel Mary melt a little further into you, and you extend your internal time limit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is dedicated to the two dumbest girls I ever roomed with.


	14. When Mary Met Sally … err, Suey

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (Timestamp)
> 
> How do two walking disasters meet? Well, one of them walks into a bar …

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> BY POPULAR DEMAND
> 
> I was saving this for a rainy day, and I guess it's pouring.

It’s not the worst dive bar you’ve ever been to, but any place that can double as a venue usually makes a bit more effort. Maybe there are some coding regulations or whatever. Your friend swears by it for cheap drinks and chaotic atmosphere, which is why you made the effort to put on a dress—a short, black thing with diaphanous tails that forgives your belly rolls—and did your doll eyes.

But the bitch isn’t even here yet. You’re on your second beer—and a band growling into mics and shredding is playing on the paltry performance area that the bar boasts—when you get another text. The first one—that you had received upon arrival yourself—had said she was on her way. This one says she’s leaving work now.

You sigh and tap your foot along to the bass. The majority of the patrons in the place are crowded into the venue room, bopping and screaming along. There are a handful, like you, who are loitering by the bar—an old drunk; two finance types with loose ties; a gaggle of scene girls waiting for their drink order; and a group of college kids at a bar top with a half-full pitcher surrounded by empty shot glasses.

The bartender—a crusty-looking dude with long, greying hair and the kind of tattoos you’d expect were done in the kitchen of a friend’s house by a biker—leans on the bar into your space and sets down a shot.

“Boyfriend stand you up, doll?”

You give the shot a little toast to him and shoot it, only coughing a little and the whiskey’s afterburn.

“Something like that” you say.

“He’s a fool to leave a face as pretty as yours up for grabs.” He pushes away from the bar to service the next customer as you stammer, “Um, thanks.”

One-third through your third beer is when you get the text that she just got home and is exhausted and can’t possibly change to come back out and meet you now. You roll your eyes, even if this was exactly what you were expecting. You’re annoyed since she picked this bar  _because_ it was near her work and therefore a quick jaunt for her on her way home—whereas you took the bus for 27min and then walked 3 blocks. But, ok.

You definitely have to pee, and—after debating whether you can wait until you finish this beer—ultimately decide that peeing is actually an imperative. Since your friend’s not here, you’ll have to take your beer with you. It seems the band must have just finished because it looks like every women in the bar is now waiting to use the two-stall women’s room. Your eyes flick over to the men’s room where there’s—you guessed it—no one.

“Fuck it,” you say out loud. “I’m crossing enemy lines.”

Occasionally you can get a flock to come with you, but tonight it seems like the other women are content with their lot, and not one follows in your wake. You kick open the door and yell,  _Female coming aboard!_ as you stomp into the bathroom. You’re prepared to cover your eyes, because men get real shy, but there actually doesn’t seem to be anyone even in here. You don’t question your luck, just make a beeline for the small stall.

Once in the stall, you debate the logistics of what to do with your beer glass—you don’t usually mind putting it on the floor, but for some reason this time you get a bad feeling, which is when you remember that you have tits. Using your cleavage, bra panel, and neckline, the glass fits quite snuggly—and you only have to be somewhat careful as you perform the intricate process of doing your business without spilling the liquid or getting your dress in the toilet.

When you wander out there’s a dude in the stall next to yours and a tall, skinny, punk guy at the bathroom sinks. He’s leaning into the cracked mirror and either putting on makeup or touching it up. Actually, upon closer inspection he’s in white face paint with black, corpse-like accents and … blood?

Whatever.

His eyes meet yours in the mirror as you sway over to the sink next to his.

“What?” he says with a sneer.

You turn to face him, leaning your hip on the sink; you point to your own mug saying, “You got something on your face,” and do a few sweeping circles with your hand. “Hereabouts.”

He looks at you and furrows his brow as you turn to wash your hands, remembering at the last minute to not lean over. In the mirror you watch as his eyes glance down to your beer cleavage. 

Beerage. 

Hah.

“Pfft. You wish, dude.”

He doesn’t say anything further, but you feel his eyes heavy on you as you finish up and saunter out. You make your way back to the bar, sighing in relief when you can safely deposit your pint glass back on the counter. The stage area is now dimmed and you notice the crowd has thinned somewhat while the bar has gained new pods of people.

You fiddle a bit with your phone—checking social media, playing a round on your game app, and texting out memes—until a fresh glass of beer is set down in front of you. One you didn’t order. When you follow the perspiring glass up you meet the black-rimmed eyes of the guy from the men’s room. He’s resting on his crossed arms and smirking you.

“I do wish, actually,” he says.

“What?”

He gives you an exaggerated once over.

You squint at him. “Weren’t you in that band?”

“Wow. ‘That band.’ Yeah, I am.”

“So why’re you behind the bar?”

He leans back, licking his lips and looking down at you with hooded eyes.

“I’m multitalented,” he says, and then makes a vulgar motion with his tongue.

You’re about to respond with something very clever, you’re sure, when the older bartender barks, “Mary!—a little help?”

He makes a shrugging motion at you as you before he turns to help with a gaggle of girls who all giggle and bat their eyelashes at him. You hadn’t intended to stay past your third beer, but after you assess the lines of “Mary’s” body and the swell of his ass in his ripped jeans, you slide the proffered beer closer to you. Maybe the night won’t be a bust after all.

You’ve just started on the gift beer when “Mary” saunters back over. He pours a shot and shoots it himself before leaning on the edge with his hip and considering you.

“Is your name really ‘Mary’?”

He lifts his chin at you in challenge. “What of it?”

You giggle. “It’s just—”

“A  _girl’s_ name? Yes, I’m qu—”

“It’s  _my_ name,” you say as you slap your hands on the bar.

He squints at you. “It’s not.”

You fish a credit card out of your phone wallet and offer it to him. He takes it, looks at it, looks at you, looks at it again, lets out a  _Huh_ , then hands it back to you.

“Well, I’m not calling you Mary. I’m calling dibs on it.”

You rest your tits on the bar as you lean toward him conspiratorially.

“You’ll have to scream something later.”

He raises his eyebrows at you.

“That’s presumptuous,” he says as he straightens and crosses his arms.

Well, ok. It’s possible you misread him. Maybe he was just angling for a good tip. You think of the other girls straining for his attention.

You shrug. “You caught me in a mood to grant wishes. But whatever.”

He gives you an unreadable look before he’s being called away again, and then he’s pouring drinks across the bar—and your face burns.

You’re suddenly irritated. It just feels like it’s been a day of teases—first your friend inviting you out then blowing you off, and now this guy who implied he’d like to fuck you only to back off once you called him on it. You could be home watching Netflix, not alone at a bar with only your phone for company. You dig into the bustle at your hip that’s really a bag and fish out a $20 and a $5—which may be a little over, but worth it in terms of expediency.

You slip off the bar stool and remove your coat from it, intending to shrug it on. It’s going to be a bitch to get home—the bus only coming every 90min at this point, so you may be in for a long walk if you don’t want to wait or splurge on a cab.

“Christ, you’re impatient,” comes a voice from behind you, and you startle.

When you turn, the Mary guy is behind you. You narrow your eyes at him.

“Dude, I’m not playing your games.” You jab your finger into his chest. “If you’re pulling some PUA shit on me, I’m not into it.”

He takes your elbow and guides back onto the stool.

“Since when is a free brooze a game? Just hang and enjoy the fucking beer I bought you, k?”

“I wouldn’t want to be  _presumptuous_ ,” you snipe, but allow him to help you back on the stool.

“And here I thought women liked a little flirtation.”

“Is that what you thought you were doing?”

He slaps his hand to his chest and makes a pained face.

“Mary get your dick back in here!” yells the other guy.

“Coming, Mickey!” he yells, his eyes still on you. He licks his lips and gives you another once over. “I have a break coming up,” he says as he backs away. “Stay.”

“MARY!”

You watch as he scrambles back behind the bar to close tabs and sling more beers. When he catches you looking at him, he winks. You just scowl at him. Some of the girls at the bar look at you with a mixture of curiosity, interest, and envy.

Whatever. Can’t shut this down.

You sip at the beer, growing increasingly more amused as Mary’s attention keeps drifting back to you. You raise your now half-full beer at him, eyebrow raised. The older dude—Mickey—wanders over to you.

“Well now, darlin’—I’m not surprised you caught our Mary’s eye, pretty thing like you. Be careful of that one though.”

You grin at him, showing teeth.

“He should be careful of me.”

Mickey blinks at you for a second, then bursts out laughing and throws his hands up. Mary is looking over at the two of you worriedly.

Time ticks on, and the beer that you’re purposely nursing goes down. Mary swings by every now and then, but never for more than a quip or two before he’s back doing Bar Things. It’s been  _hours_ , and honestly you’re pretty bored with just sitting at the bar  _waiting_ . And you’re  _definitely _ going to need a cab home because in these heels? No. 

You decide,  _fuck it_ . It’s not like this guy was going to be amazing. You drain the rest of the beer, and decide to hit the head before heading out. It’s nearly midnight, so there’s no line or issue with the women’s room, and you’re basically in and out. When you leave the restroom, you’re startled again by Mary—who’s leaning against the wall, hands in his pockets.

“Hey,” he says. “Leaving so soon?”

You level a look at him. “I’ve been here for 6 hours.”

He scrunches his brow at you.

“Really?”

“So unless you’re going to fuck me soon …”

He pulls at you. “How ‘bout you take me home when I get cut, and I’ll fuck you into the mattress?”

You press your tits into him. “And will that be soon?” you ask sweetly.

“I’m here until 2, but—”

“Yeah, no,” you say, extracting yourself.

He bites his lip. “Well … I’m on my break,” he looks down the hall towards the bar, “but there’s probably only 10min left.”

You cross your arms at him. “So you’ll have 7min to spare.”

Mary straightens. “You’ve got a mouth on you.”

You lick your lips exaggeratedly and smirk. “I know.”

He grabs you by your wrist, and yanks you into his body, leering into your face. “Well, if you want me to pound you into tomorrow right now, I have no problem with that.” 

He drags you into the men’s room, not even stopping to assess for casualties. There’s a guy at a urinal, but he doesn’t even look up as Mary ushers you into the stall. He runs a hand into your hair and grips you by the roots. You go with it, allowing him to tilt your head back.

He leans into your space to growl, “You better be fucking quiet.”

“I doubt it’ll be an issue,” you taunt, biting at him.

Mary pushes you back and shoves his fingers into your mouth.

“I told you to be fucking quiet.”

He crams his fingers further down your throat. When you don’t gag, his interest piques, and he spends about 30 seconds thrusting his fingers in and out of your mouth.

“Shame we can’t explore that,” he says as he extracts his fingers and wipes them on his jeans. Your eyes are drawn to the decent bulge at his crotch. When he tracks your gaze, he gives his dick a vulgar squeeze. “Is this what you’re here for?”

“It sure ain’t the conversation.”

“I’m tempted to shut you up with it.”

“ _Promises_ ,” you purr.

You press into him, then reach under your dress to yank down your panties. You use the solid presence of his body for balance as you slide them down and then off one leg, wobbling a little as the loop catches on your heel. His arm reaches up to steady your elbow as you shake your boot free. He watches you, and you wink at him exaggeratedly as you stuff the excess fabric into the other boot.

“Been a while since I fucked a smart girl,” he quips.

You hook your hand around the back of his neck. 

“What about me? Am I about to fuck a smart boy?” You grab his hand to lead to your pussy. “Make me wet for you.”

He’s quick to get with the program, and he cups you with his whole hand before his fingers explore between your folds. You pull his head down to engage him in a sloppy kiss, sucking at his tongue and biting at his lips. A finger presses shallowly into your hole, then smears your slick up to your clit. You moan into Mary’s mouth as the pad of his finger circles you a few times.

He repeats the process until you’re sloppy, spreading your wetness out and over your lips. He breaks the suction of your mouth to whisper into your ear. “If we had all night, I’d play your pussy like my guitar and make you scream until you were horse—and that would be before I fucked the shit out of you.”

Then Mary retracts his hand—wiping his fingers on his jeans again—so he can work at his studded belt and zipper.

“But I’m really looking forward to burying my cock in you before my break is over.”

He advances on you, but you stop him with a hand to his chest.

“Condom?”

He pauses to pat at his jeans before pulling out his wallet from his back pocket and extracting a condom packet. He hands the foil to you so he can shove his jeans and boxers down. His hard cock juts out from his pelvis, and you lick your lips. You open the packet, make sure the condom is correct side up, and then roll it down his cock as he grips at your arms. Then you turn around so you can brace your hands against the back wall and perch your foot on the toilet.

“Not your first rodeo, I take it?”

You glare at him over your shoulder.

“If you slut shame me I  _will_ punch you in the nuts and walk out of here.”

He shuffles closer. “No, it’s hot. You fuck a lot of dick in bathrooms?” 

“A lady doesn’t kiss and tell.”

His hands run up your sides and then start to fiddle with the tails of your dress.

“So you should have no problem answering me.”

“You’re awfully glib for a guy who wants to get his dick wet.”

He’s still fiddling with your dress.

“I’m not the one who needed to fuck  _right now_ —christ what are these?”

“Just tie it in a bow!”

You feel the tails tug and tighten, then Mary crowds into your space. He rubs his cockhead through your slit a few times, and every time he hits your clit, you let out an  _Mmm_ . Then he presses at your hole and begins to slowly push in as you push back. You moan and he grunts as he sinks into you, a steadying hand at your hip.

He presses closer, his one hand bracing next to yours on the wall.

“This ok?”

“Oh god,” you moan as you clench around him.

“ _Shit_ . I’m going to fuck you now.”

He gives a few experimental thrusts until he finds a good angle and rhythm—and then you’re in trouble. He curls an arm around your waist and begins to pound into you as much as the position and angle allows—which is more than enough to have you moaning out.

“Fuck, you’re tight. You feel so good around my cock.” He bites into your shoulder. “Fucking tell me you like my cock.”

“Fills me up so good!”

His cock  _does_ feel good—enough that you’re still wet—but definitely not enough for you to come. You try to take a hand off the wall so you can finger yourself, but a well-placed jolt from Mary has you sliding dangerously before you catch yourself. You try your other hand with similar results.

“What are you doing?” Mary pants.

“Need … my clit …” you whine.

The arm around your waist loosens, and Mary’s hand wanders down your stomach and begins to search around for access. He’s just about to dip down, when your trembling leg gives out and shoots across the toilet. You’re sure it’s about to go into the bowl, but then Mary’s hand is there, gripping your thigh hard to steady you.

“Fuck, careful.”

It becomes clear that Mary’s supporting arm around your waist is all that’s keeping your boot from sliding away, so he doesn’t attempt to finger you again. He’s panting into your ear with the effort of fucking into you and holding you up, and you feel him start to flag. He slows his pace to long thrusts, and you can hear the squelch every time he bottoms out.

“Are you at all close?” he wheezes.

“Not really.” All you can think about is the strain in your arms and the tremor in your leg.

He blows out a breath.

“I don’t know how much longer I can—”

“Just cum,” you say.

“Are you sure?”

“It’s fine.”

He grips you tighter as he speeds up, forehead pressing into your shoulder blades, and then he’s giving a hard thrust into you gasping, “Oh god, oh fuck.” He gives another couple of jolting thrusts into you, grunting, before the tension bleeds out of him and he leans into you. It’s too much strain on your arms, and you squirm with an annoyed  _Ok_ . He back ups, and his softening cock slips out of you. You shakily bring down your leg and push off the wall. When you turn around, you see that Mary has already tied off the condom and is pulling up his pants. You grab some toilet paper to swipe at yourself as Mary just stands there.

Frankly he looks a little embarrassed.

“I am actually better at doing that.”

You nod at him. “I’m sure.”

“I could—”

“I’m going to pee now,” you say, and make a shooing motion.

He blinks at you a few times, then back ups and slips out of the stall. You have to get your whole situation in order, so when you leave the stall, Mary’s no longer in the restroom. A drunk guy does a double take.

“Emeye the right place?” he slurs as he turns and misses the urinal.

You give him jazz hands. “ _This is all a dream_ .”

When you get back to the bar, there are only the truly drunk left still standing—metaphorically speaking. Mary’s at the other end fussing with the cash register as the Mickey dude gestures at him. You grab your coat back up to put on—you already left the cash for the drinks and tip so there’s nothing left for you to settle up.

As you push open the door to the outside, you hear an exasperated  _Mary_ behind you, so you’re not surprised when—3 steps out of the bar—Mary grabs your arm.

“Wait!” he says.

You sigh, but stop. “I have to get up for work tomorrow and I’ve already spent my entire night waiting. It’s, like. Super late.  _What_ ?”

“Well I—don’t you think you deserve the full Mary experience?” He makes a sweeping motion up and down his body.

“Not tonight I don’t. Tonight I deserve a hot shower and my warm bed.”

“I will literally come by  _whenever_ and eat you out for hours. I owe you at least one phenomenal orgasm, but I’ll call the other nine interest.”

You consider him.

“C’mon,” he says swaying closer. “Give me your number, and I’ll show you what I can really do. Don’t you want this warm, wiggly tongue making you sing the high notes?” He goes to run his fingers through your hair, but you dodge and he drops his hand, his face falling.

He looks like a little boy who just got his favorite ball taken away. 

You sigh.

“Tell you what: Uber me a ride home, and you can give me  _your_ number.”

“What?” he says, squinting at you.

“Consider it asshole tax.”

He stares at you, then he takes out his wallet and rifles through it. “I don’t have Uber—you know they’re anti-union, right? But here—” He pulls out $40 and extends the bills to you. “This is all I have. For a cab.”

You stare at the bills for a moment, then pluck a twenty from him.

“This is fine.”

You take out your phone and poke at it until you’re in your contacts.

“Here.”

He takes the device into his long fingers. He does the hunt and peck until his number is in your phone. When he gives it back to you, you see his number is under “Best Sex You’ll Ever Have”.

You snort. “Subtle.”

He sneers. “Can’t have you confusing me with your other conquests.”

You waggle your phone at home. “I’ll call you. And you better rock my fucking world.”

Once you get home, you basically collapse, and the next morning is hell in getting yourself up and alert—but once the day wears on, you find yourself opening and closing Mary’s number. It actually takes you two more days before you decide: Why not have fun with a booty call?

**Me [4:37pm]: My pussy’s not going to eat itself.**


	15. Recognition

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Suey makes a surprising discovery.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Plot stuff

It’s been happening for weeks.

A sudden feeling of eyes on you. Weird, little incidents that you can’t help but connect together in your mind—your own Baader-Meinhof phenomenon.

Browsing at the consignment shop, and you look up—having felt the weight of a stare—to see a gaggle of girls whispering behind their hands. When you catch eyes with them, they make a hasty retreat, giggling. You look down at yourself to make sure your boob isn’t hanging out, or that there’s no toilet paper stuck to your shoe—but everything seems in order.

At the MAC store (if you wanna upgrade Mary’s stock that’s nobody’s business but your own), when two baby goths seems to be intently watching what you put in your basket. You smile at them, but they just look down quickly, as if the floor holds the secret to non-cakey face powder.

Enjoying $5 beers and reading a book at your neighborhood bar when a group of emo dudes sends you a drink. And, ok—not to brag—that’s not the odd part. It’s the way they elbow each other until one of them comes over and asks if you’re expecting company. You eye him—and the expectant pack he came from—deadpaning that you don’t do gangbangs. He giggles nervously.

“So no one’s joining you?”

“No**p**e.”

You have your speech all prepared when he just sighs and says  _That’s a shame_ , before heading back over to his group, which reluctantly leaves. Men,  _leaving_ when you say you’re by yourself. 

_Weird_ .

It’s all enough to give a girl a complex. So, you try to convince yourself that people looking away when you look up and clearly talking about you surreptitiously, is all in your head. 

You’re having a pre-holiday lunch at the greasy punk diner with your friend Arry because she's not coming to the tree trimming, when the pieces start to fall into place. The two of you are embroiled in a dish session, when a lone girl approaches you. She’s maybe 19—growing out green hair and sporting a Monroe piercing—and she approaches you shyly.

“Excuse me,” she all but whispers.

“Yes?” you say, not unkindly.

She hesitates a little, her eyes darting to yours and then back to the floor, then asks, “You’re Mary’s girl, right? Mary Goore?”

Arry—who you  _have not told_ —raises her eyebrows at you and rests her chin in her hand, curious as to where this is going.

“Uh, yeah. Yeah I am.”

The girl sort of rocks back and forth a little, sucking in one side of her cheek.

“I have a-a thing. He just. Always seems so intense? If I gave it to you … ?”

“A thing.”

“It’s-it’s nothing  _weird_ . Just a-a drawing.”

Arry is looking at you like,  _This makes sense to you?!_

You smile big and try to send out I’m-not-going-to-eat-you vibes, which is a struggle since your default setting is mostly fuck-off-and-die.

“All right, let’s see then.”

The girl’s face snaps to look up at you, gauging your sincerity, before swinging her messenger bag around. She fumbles around in it, bringing out a sketchbook. You can see she’s shaking as she flips through it. She finally manages to get to the right page, and then she’s turning it out and around for you to see.

[It’s a gorgeous caricature of Mary on stage in his corpse paint looking grave and holding his guitar out like a weapon. There’s a speech bubble that says, “u want sum fuk?”.](https://slimylayne.tumblr.com/post/620029688137629696/fanart-based-on-the-fanart-in-copias-thrall-s)

It’s hilarious.

When you don’t respond immediately—only because you’re so entranced—the girl starts sputtering.

“I-I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”

“No, it’s  _wonderful_ ,” you say as you look up at her. “This is great—right up his alley.”

She brightens. “Really??”

“Really,” you agree.

“Th-thanks. So you’d … ?”

“Yes, I’d love to give this to him, if that’s what you want.”

She nods vigorously.

Luckily you have your computer and bag with you, so you gingerly place the drawing inside your closed laptop for safekeeping. The girl is looking at you as if you’d hung the moon.

“Do you have an insta?” you ask.

“Oh! Yeah, it’s …” She leans down and writes her handle on a napkin.

You take it, smiling warmly at her, and are surprised when she leans down for a side hug, before quickly scampering off. Arry is giving you A Look.

“What. The Absolute Fuck. Was that about?”

You blush. It’s not that you’ve been  _hiding_ Mary … it’s just that it’s so new, even if doing the math in your head tells you otherwise. You give her a little shrug.

Arry glares at you. “Ok, fine. I was giving you a chance. But if you’re not going to come clean …” She pulls out her phone, tapping and scrolling through it before sliding it over to you. “ _Explain_ .”

Picking up the phone you see a grainy picture of you at Regency sitting on Mary’s lap. Your head snaps up.

“Where did you—”

“Oh, keep scrolling.”

You do, and you find several more from that night, some really unflattering zooms with redeye from other bars, and the selfie Roxie took—in which you and Mary are pale and glowering and Roxie still looks high.

“ _Where did you get these_ ?” you hiss, clenching the phone.

When Arry holds out her hand, you reluctantly hand it back over.

“One of my friends sent that last one to me—that’s from Roxie Hearts’ instagram, by the way. She’s a pretty well-known—”

“Yes, I know.” You put your head in your hands.

“She’s since deleted it, by the way. But, Otis sent it to me asking if this wasn’t you. I kind of fell down a rabbit hole of hashtags from there. So.  _Explain_ .”

“Um,” you say and you trace patterns with your finger on the table, “you remember Bathroom Guy?”

“ _This_ is the guy who fucked you in a bathroom?!”

You grimace at your friend.

“Yeah?”

Your friend slaps the table and shakes her hands at you.

“HOW COULD YOU NOT TELL ME YOU’RE DATING  _BATHROOM GUY_ ?!”

“It’s only been like 6 months or something,” you mutter.

She throws a french fry at you.

“ _Six months_ !”

“ _Dating is like pregnancy_ ! You can’t announce it too soon! It might not take!”

“That’s only for like,  _three_ months, you cow. You’re fucking impossible. Only you would think  _6 months_ is nothing!  _DETAILS_ .”

“I just,” you stammer, “I don’t know! He put his number in my phone and I just. Kept calling him up. For sex. I have  _needs_ you know!”

“Oh yes. We’re all very clear on what a fucking nympho you are. But how do you go from booty calls to random teens giving you  _fan art_ of your  _boyfriend_ who’s  _in a band_ .”

You put your head in your hands and moan.

“I don’t know! Here I am thinking of him as This Guy who just randomly shows up to fuck, to complain about  _everything_ , and to watch my cable when he’s not working—and it turns out that’s dating. Ta-da!”

You give her jazz hands.

She scrunches her face at you.

“Tell me you’re not in one of those situations you get yourself into.”

“What situations?”

“Ok, look. Don’t get offended—”

“Arr—”

“No: listen, hun—sometimes you date guys just because it’s like you don’t know what else to do. Don’t give me that look, you know you do. They're clearly into you, and you just seem indifferent most of the time.”

You shrug. “Well, Mary isn’t like that.”

“Which is why you haven’t fucking told anyone?” She raises her eyebrow.

You start shredding your napkin. “I guess maybe I keep waiting for him to realize I’m not the cool girl he thinks I am? How embarrassing would that be if I told people and then he dumped me? He knows all kinds of … people.”

“Oh, hon,” she says as she puts her hand on yours. “You’re amazing. That’s what he sees.”

“Yeah, well. Maybe,” you say, and you quickly take back your hand.

There’s a beat, and then Arry asks, “Do you have any pictures of him?” 

“Seems like you have plenty,” you huff.

“Yeah, all grainy. C’mon! Don’t hold out on me!”

Begrudgingly, you fish out your phone and pull up the G-rated album—which you created after Krissy almost swiped too far in your camera roll—and hand it over to Arry. She takes it greedily and starts zooming and swiping.

“Huh,” she says, her face twisting in … concentration? “Don’t I know this guy?”

“You literally just said you stalked him on insta.”

“No, from somewhere else.” She waves her hand at you. “Whatever.” Arry keeps scrolling. “Well, he looks … happy.”

You frown. “You don’t like him.”

She hands the phone back to you. “I don’t know him. I just think the makeup is weird.” She leans in. “Does he take it off? Have you seen his real face?!”

You scrunch your face at her. “Of course he takes it off.” You toss your hair haughtily. “You think I’m going to let him eat me out like that? Like I need another UTI in my life.”

Arry bursts out laughing. “You did seem to get a disproportionate amount.”

Shrugging, you say, “Spermicide, who knew?”

“Yeah, sure.  _That’s_ why.”

You throw a fry back at her. “Bitch.”

She sticks her tongue out at you.

“ _Anyway_ . No, he usually doesn’t wear it when we’re just hanging out.”

“So you don’t hang out a lot?”

You squint at her. “Why would you say that?”

“None of those pictures show his face!”

“They don’t?” you ask as you open your phone to scroll through again. She’s right, so you pop back to your camera roll. “Oh. Well,” you look up at her, “those ones are … private.”

“Sexy pictures aren’t supposed to have faces!”

While there  _are_ X-rated pictures of the 2 of you sans faces on your roll, the ones that you’re talking about are not those. One is you in bed wearing Mary’s tee with him asleep and drooling on your chest; another is him at your cafe table focused on his guitar; still another is him at your feet, staring up at you. 

So—not  _X-rated_ but definitely  _private_ .

“Yeah, well—it doesn’t need to be sexy to be private.” You lock your phone and shove it back in your bag.

Arry is staring at you.

“What?”

“You like him.”

“Of course I like him. I’m dating him, aren’t I?”

She gives you a knowing smile, and you roll your eyes in response.

“SoOo … when do I get to meet him?”

You groan again.

* * *

You’ve basically just gotten home yourself—and are in the process of shucking off your stockings to soak—when Mary bangs into your place with his usual finesse. You’re surprised because Fridays are his big money-making day at the bar, especially now that it’s the holidays. 

“What are you doing here?” you ask as you wander out of your bathroom.

Mary makes a face at you as he throws down his stuff. “Well, hello to you too.”

You roll your eyes. “You know what I mean—you’re supposed to be working.”

He takes in your outside clothes. “Oh … were you … going out?”

“Just got in, actually. Saw a friend for lunch.”

Mary continues taking off his shoes. “Ah. Well, I switched.”

“Switched for what? You’re already working tomorrow night.”

“What are you? My day planner now?”

You bristle. “Christ, Mare. Is it a crime to know when you’re going to be unavailable. What? I should just sit here waiting for you whenever  _just in case_ ?”

“Fuck—calm down, all right? I asked for the night off, ok?.”

“You’re blowing off work?” you ask as you squint at him. “Why would you do that? I thought you were counting on the tips?”

“See, this is why I told you I switched. I’m not ‘blowing off work’—I asked Mickey last week if there were any days he could spare me, and he called to let me know I could take tonight off if I wanted.”

You shift uneasily.

“But why would you do that?”

“Uh … to spend time with you?”

“But, I’m not … I didn’t  _ask_ you to do that. I don’t want to be why you can’t make rent. I could’ve waited til before I left on Monday to see you.”

Mary just sighs and flops down on your couch, pulling the balled-up afghan over his lap.

“Suey, I’m not as broke as all that. It’s tight—sure—but. Life is more than just watching it pass you by while you feed into the capitalist grind, you know? Is it so out there that I want to see my girlfriend without either of us having to fuck off afterwards?”

He looks over at you. You crawl onto the couch after him, squeezing yourself behind him so you can massage his shoulders. Mary melts into your touch.

“Of course I want to see you, but I don’t want to be why you can’t concentrate on your band, especially since you guys have such a full schedule til the end of the year. I know how important that is.”

He tilts his head to kiss your hand.

“Even if that’s why I can’t see you as much as I’d like?”

“Clingy dudes are such a turn off,” you say as in mock affectation. “I like my independence.”

Mary snorts.

You work his neck and shoulders in silence for a while before he catches up one of your hands to kiss the knuckles.

“One day I’ll give you everything.”

Your gut does something complicated, so you pull your hand back to rest on his shoulder.

“That’s a nice sentiment, Mary, but I won’t hold you to it.”

Mary sighs with his whole body.

“I wish you would.”

The two of you stay like that for a while—with you encircling him from behind and his head back leaned back on you.

“So …” you say. “Apparently we’re all over the internet.”

He twists a little to face you.

“What do you mean?”

You scramble off the couch to grab your phone from your bag, and present the pictures now in it to Mary. He scrolls through, his face indecipherable. 

“These are all …?”

“On Instagram, yeah.”

When he gets to Roxie’s selfie, he exhales heavily, resting his forehead on the phone.

“I’ll tell her to delete this.”

“It’s apparently already gone.”

He rolls his head back toward you.

“I’m sorry.”

You squint at him. “Why are you sorry?”

“I don’t think sometimes.”

You smirk at him. “I’m not going to refute that.”

He makes a  _tetch_ noise at you.

“I didn’t think what, uh, showing you off would mean. For you.”

You crawl into his lap. “I mean, it’s a little weird. I’m no one.”

Mary chucks you under the hey. “Hey. You’re someone. To me.”

Rolling your eyes, you say, “You know what I mean, Mare.”

“Well, I’m sorry you’re all over Instagram, but I’m not sorry people think you’re someone.”

He’s giving you his soft eyes, and you suddenly remember the fan art. You let out an  _Oh_ before climbing off his lap. Mary seems a little put off, but you can tell his curiosity is piqued when you extract the sheet of paper stock from your laptop.

“ _A fan_ of yours gave this to me to give to you.”

Mary looks pained.

“It’s amazing,” you say as you hold out the paper. He takes it gingerly, and you make yourself comfortable once more on your couch. He’s staring at the page, the corners of his mouth twitching upward.

“You should feature it on the band’s insta and @ her.”

He looks at you. “The band has an instagram?”

“You’re fucking useless, you know that? Yes, your band has an insta. It’s awful, by the way—who takes your pictures? A dog with a GoPro?”

“Uh ….”

“Useless. Anyway, I’m telling you—post it and tag her.”

He carefully sets the picture on your coffee table.

“I’d rather tag you,” he says as he noses into your neck. Your tilt your head to give him access, and you feel his lips press into the juncture of your neck—

—and then he blows a raspberry into your skin.

You shriek and try to pull away, but he grips you tightly against him as he continues to misuse your neckline. You’re twisting in his grasp, laughing and trying to push him away. He snuffles into your skin, growling and wetly licking at you. You finally manage to get your hands under his shirt, and you wiggle your fingers into his side, causing him to yelp and jerk away.

“That’s cheating!” he says as he fights to keep your menacing hands away from his body.

“All’s fair in love and war, asshole.”

You lunge for him, and he catches up your wrists in his strong grip. He pulls you into him, practically touching his nose to yours. Hooded eyes dart around your face he says,

“Oh yeah? Which one’s this?”

He’s looking at you intensely, his grip relaxing slightly, and that’s when you lean in and bite down hard on his bottom lip. He makes an aggrieved noise as he flinches away, and you use the opening to push him down and dig your hands into his sides again. He’s flailing and cursing at you, so you climb on top of him and fight to get his arms pinned under your legs.

“Hah! I’m queen of the hill, motherfucker. Victory is mine!”

Mary’s face is flushed under his day makeup, and the laughter tears have worn trails down his temples. He’s making Grumpy Skeleton face at you.

“You play dirty, Suey.”

You lean down, hands trailing teasingly over his sides as he tries and fails to jerk away from your touch.

“I play to win. And I demand my spoils.”

“Oh? And what do you think you’ve won?”

“A favor—a kiss. On the lips.”

He quirks his eyebrow at you. “Just a kiss?” His hips shift and buck under you, his erection obvious against you.

You nod. “ _Just_ a kiss.”

“Ok, Queen Bitch. You may steal a kiss from your prisoner.”

Smiling wickedly, you hike up your skirt and knee up his torso. His eyes open wide, but his pupils are fully dilated. You cast about for—ah!—a napkin on the coffee table from … whenever … and wipe some of the makeup off his face. He grumbles at you, but allows it. 

Once you’re satisfied, you toss the napkin in the general area of your trash can, then you knee up further. When you’re kneeling over his mouth, you reach between your legs and shift the crotch of your polka-dot panties out of the way.

“Kiss it.”

His hands reach up to grip at your thighs; he licks his own lips, then presses a chaste kiss to the ones of your cunt before looking up at you for approval. You pet down his head, the fake blood from his hair flaking off onto your hand and the couch.

“Mmm. That's a good start, but you should show me your technique—use a little tongue.”

Mary closes his eyes again, and his tongue flicks out to trace the seam of your folds. He does this a few times, you letting out pleased sighs, before slowly wiggling the tip in between them. At the first exploratory flick on your clit, you moan and grip his stiff hair. He slithers his tongue up and down through your slit slowly, dipping into your hole before licking at your nub.

“It’s ok to get sloppy!” you gasp as you rock against his chin. “I don’t mind a little spit.”

His grip on your thighs tightens as his mouth presses into you, his tongue now lapping in an ever-increasing rhythm as you gasp and work your hips against his rhythm. Mary shifts his long legs so that they’re bent at the knees, and you lean back into them. 

“So good. Fuck … yeah. Put a finger in me!” you moan.

He manages to work a hand under you, his finger slipping in easily because of your wetness, and he presses into the spots you like. You’re trembling with the effort of holding yourself up, and you’re swallowing hard when you remember you have to breathe. Mary redoubles his efforts, his tongue speeding up as he swirls around your clit and his finger beginning to fuck in and out of you.

“Oh god, oh fuck, oh god,” you chant as you feel your pussy begin to pulsate and tighten. Mary presses the tip of his into your nub, and you can feel the sweetness of your orgasm pool, ready to break. You tense, back bowed, about to cum—and Mary, eyes now firmly fixed on you, sets his tongue flying on your engorged clit. You let out ridiculous moans—worthy of a bad porn star—as you climax and your pussy pops, your knees pressing hard into either side of his head. Mary doesn’t stop the massage of his tongue until you lean all your weight into the wall of his thighs behind you.

“Is my Queen Bitch pleased with her favor?” he asks wryly as he wipes his face with the collar of his shirt. You purr out an  _Mmm_ , content to just lounge against his knees. He—however—sits up, rearranging the two of you so that you’re straddling his lap.

“If I may be so bold?” he says as he gives a few experimental ruts against you.

“Lay on,” you say lazily, and make a “proceed” motion with your hand.

Mary’s eagerness is palpable as he struggles to get his dick out of his jeans without bucking you off him. You smile at him smugly as you refuse to help with his efforts at all. He makes a few annoyed sounds at you, but is ultimately successful with freeing his cock—your clit giving a throb of interest when you get an eyeful at how hard and flushed it is.

“C’mon,” he whines as he rubs it against you. “You gotta help out.”

Sighing as if you’re  _so put out_ , you lift up enough for him to rub his cockhead through your slit a few times—a grunt of approval escaping from his lips—before he gets the tip inside you. You slide down him—the both of you moaning as he enters you fully—and then he hooks his hands over your shoulders for the leverage to pound up into you.

You try to ride him, but his thrusts are too insistent for you to keep up, so instead you grind your clit down into the curls of his pubic hair. He’s been rubbing his face back and forth over your collarbone, but suddenly he tilts his head back and slows his fucks.

“Oh fuck, oh shit. Wanna feel your tits.” He tugs at your blouse. “Take this off before I rip it off you.”

You roll your eyes, but begin to fumble with your buttons as he yanks his band tee over his head. He almost does rip off your cami when he sees you have  _another _ layer to contend with, but ultimately you shimmy out of it without incident. When your breasts land heavy against your ribs, he’s quick to lean down and suck one into his mouth. He rocks into you now without rhythm as he sucks and licks at your tits, more interested in the weight and fullness of them in his mouth than nipple play. 

While he plays with them, you reach your hand down to play with your clit as you rock your hips. You lose yourself in the feeling of Mary filling and sucking on you as you bring yourself closer to a second orgasm. He doesn’t seem to notice how close you are, so he’s surprised when you suddenly jerk away moaning and start clenching around his dick.

“You sneak!” he gasps out as your climax rhythmically squeezes him. He snarls at you as he once again grips you to him and starts to fuck up into you without mercy. Your tits are now squashed into his chest, and you moan—still a raw nerve from your orgasm—at the feeling of your hard nipples rubbing against him.

Mary’s forehead presses against your breastbone, and he’s making little noises of distress at his need to cum like 5 minutes ago. The angle isn’t quite right for him to get as much thrust as he wants, and he’s trying to make up for it in frequency—but that’s just tiring him out.

You start squeezing your muscles around him—him moaning each time—and you lean down to whisper praise into his ear as you wrap a hand around his throat.

“You’re doing so well. That’s my good boy. You’ve pleased me so much. Such a very good boy for me.”

You squeeze a little harder.

A few more shuddering thrusts, and he finally stiffens, breathing muffled cries of release into your chest as his climax washes over him. He’s panting, and you feel the throb of his cock as he spills into you.

“There you go. So good, Mary. So good.”

You stay like that until he recovers his senses and tilts his head to blink up owlishly at you.

“Fuck,” he says, and you grin, leaning down to peck his lips.

He flops down onto his back, and you gingerly—legs protesting the whole time—climb off him to wobble unsteadily on the floor. He looks over at you.

“No. Rest,” he says reaching an arm out to you. You take it, but use it to pull him up, which just results in him sliding off onto the floor. “Ugh,  _why_ ,” he whines as you laugh at his tangle of limbs and soft dick flopping about.

“C’mon. Let’s take a shower and wash all the gross off before we fall asleep like old people. I don’t think my couch cushions can be flipped again.”

Mary groans, but starts the process of getting up off the floor.

“I’m really am gonna get you a plastic cover.”

“That’s a  _terrible_ idea. We’d slip right off!”

He grins at you. “Only if we were wearing clothes.”

* * *

The two of you are waiting for the Chinese food you ordered, bundled up in the afghan against the creeping chill while Mary flips through your channels and you idly go through Mary’s ancient camera. All the images seem to fall under 1 of 3 categories: dead/decaying things; run down buildings; & injuries … but there are a handful of sporadic pictures of just you—mundane things like you touching your nose to remember something, or asleep on the couch, and one of you frowning at the subway wait time. Thinking of your own “matching set”—so to speak—you look up at Mary; his hair is soft and flat, his face scrubbed clean. You lean in to swipe at Mary’s bare cheek, and his eyes sweep over to you.

“What? Did I not get it all?”

“No, you did—it’s just. I like this Mary. Like, Mean Skeleton Mary is hot, but this one is just for me.”

Mary grins wide, and you smile back—but then he laughs into your face, and you flinch away.

“What?”

“Nothing,” he gasps around his giggles.

“Ok, fuck you,” you say as you pull away from him and curl into yourself, crossing your arms.

“No! No no no!” he wheezes as he reaches for you. “C’mere, I’m sorry.”

“No,” you gripe as you squirm ineffectually to get out of his grasp. You fume in his embrace as he continues to chuckle. 

“You’re a dick, Mary Goore.”

“I’m sorry, Suey,” he says as he swipes at his eyes. “It’s just—that’s the single most ‘mushy’ thing you’ve ever said to me that was legit. Is there a heart in there after all?”

Grumbling, you push at him with your feet to keep him away. “Don’t get used to it. It only beats occasionally.”

Still laughing, he swipes his camera from you, turning it to get you in its frame.

“I want to document this moment, so I have it for the record that your heart beat once.”

You make a mean lemon face at and give the middle finger to him as he snaps a few pictures of you.

“The day Suey’s heart grew 3 sizes.” 

“I hope you know we’re in a fight right now.”

“Yeah, I know. Worth it, though.”

Later, when you’re prone and regretting all the noodles you’ve just consumed—and after you rubbed your food baby on Mary and demanded child support ( _“How can it be mine? Look how big it is already! No dice, momma.”_ )—you watch as Mary picks up the fan art off the table to examine again.

“It  _is_ good,” he says. You murmur wordlessly in agreement. “But I’m still sorry you’re out there now.”

You wave it off. “It’s fine now that I know. It was just weird at first—like I had to keep constantly checking that my skirt wasn’t tucked into my tights or something. Now, I keep thinking about how I can’t just go out in my pjs anymore. Full makeup and full outfit for me, even if it’s just to the corner store!”

Mary snorts. “Why do you think I just started going everywhere as ‘Mean Skeleton Mary’?”

“I just assumed it was because you’re a pretentious fuckhead.”

“You’re a bitch.”

He jostles you meanly on purpose, and you grunt as your food sloshes uncomfortably in your stomach.

“I  _will_ vomit on you.”

He grins. “ _Neat_ .”

“Ugh— _gross_ , Mary.”


	16. Investments

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Suey is caught off guard, but Mary gets what he was looking for.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! I've been pretty much working on the last several chapters simultaneously for weeks, so after this one, I'm going to take a short break to fill my well back up for these 2 gremlins while I work on other Ghost stuff. 
> 
> I'm basically considering this the end of Part 1, story arch-wise. I'm planning on Part 2 being a lot more meaty in terms of the characters, so know that there is still lots more content to come!

Mary is panting over you, his hips pumping and concave belly crunching as he thrusts in and out. You have your legs wrapped around his waist, and your one arm is stretched behind you, bracing against the wall. The comforter—despite having started up around Mary’s shoulders—is most of the way down his back, but still covers the two of you enough that the air between your bodies is hot and humid. Mary’s flat chest is glistening with sweat, and you can feel droplets roll from under your breasts down your sides. Despite this, whenever Mary leans down to press his nose into your neck for a smell, you’re surprised at its coldness.

Every time you moan, Mary answers in a husky grunt—higher in register than his normal growl. You’re content at the spark of pleasure when your clit slaps against Mary’s pelvis and at the stretch of his cock inside you, using your free hand instead to scrape down the moist skin of his back with your nails—Mary letting out a puff of air when you dig in with any fervor.

You two rarely fuck like this—both completely nude, missionary, and without extra play—but the steam radiators are spotty at best with inconsistent temperatures, and the night before Mary had crawled into your bed late, wheedling that you’d generate more body heat if you were both naked, until you’d finally given in. Neither of you had done much more after that than huddle close for body heat and fall asleep.

Mary shifts up onto his knees, and your legs break apart. His repositioning takes most of the heat with him, and you make a disgruntled noise when the cool air hits the sweat on your body. Your nipples—already hard—now pebble.

“I’m gonna cum soon if I keep going like that,” he whispers by way of apology as he starts thrusting long and slow into you—and you can feel the heat of his cock as it leaves you. He fumbles with one of your legs, ultimately getting it up to rest on his shoulder. You moan as it gives him a deeper angle and you’re hit with a burst of pleasure; Mary groans when you tighten around him, and he turns his head to nip at the delicate skin around your ankle.

It’s harder for you to do much like this, so you move your other arm to brace against the wall as well. Mary slides his hand down your leg, fingers trailing lightly over the soft skin of your inner thigh—sending a thrill through you—before pressing the pad of his thumb into your clit.

You gasp at the feeling—you hadn’t realized how much you needed to be touched—and your head falls back as your back arches. You push forward into his thumb and clench your pussy.

“Fuck. Yeah … do it. Use me.”

“Your fucking cock, Mary,” you pant as you barce hard into the wall so you can rock first into his thumb and then onto his cock—both sensations swirling together to make your blood rise and your cunt pulsate.

“Jesus Christ … _ughn_,” grunts Mary. “Fucking look at you.”

You feel the spit pool in your mouth and you don’t even care that it spills out when you twist your head to the side. Mary shifts—your leg sliding off his shoulder—and his other hand reaches forward to pinch at your tight nipples.

“Uh, fucK,” you spit as the feeling goes straight to your clit. You wrap your legs back around Mary so that you can pull him into you as you rock your hips harder, chasing the peak of that sweet hill as you mash into him. 

A whine escapes you as you come close, only to slide back down the slope. At this point you’ve been doing most of the work—Mary mostly letting you use him—but now he stills (his cock giving a hard throb inside you when he does) and starts really going at your engorged nub with his thumb. You cry out as it feels like all your blood quickens and pools into your cunt, the sudden heavy feeling building up around your clit as it begins to pulsate.

“Yes yes yes … there there there,” you gasp as your hands leave the wall to fist into your pillow. Your orgasm hovers—a suspension before the freefall—and you bow off the bed, your gasp catching in your throat before your climax finally breaks. You give a succession of high, breathy grunts as your pussy pops and clenches, and your hips buck into Mary

When the waves even out, you flop back onto the bed, both arms lolling out.

“Jesus fuck. Christ,” growls Mary as he practically falls onto you and begins pounding into you. His hands hook around your shoulders and his face presses into the pillow as he drives his cock hard into your cunt.

You rumble in sated pleasure, and you run your fingers into his hair as you squeeze hard around him in long pulses.

“Oh god—oh my god … oh shit, oh fuck.”

Mary gives a choked off cry as he slams hard in between your legs, and then he’s giving stuttering grunts while his hips continue to jerk as he empties the cum from his cock into you. And then his full weight is pressing down into you as he gives great, heaving pants into the pillow. Your legs sprawl open, and you turn your head to give Mary’s ear—which tastes like salt and bitter earwax—a lick. He gives an answering rumble.

You clamp around him again, and his soft cock squirts out of you, you laughing even as Mary twitches and grumbles.

“Don’t be mean,” he mumbles into the pillow.

“I do what I want, Mary Goore, and I’m mean as a _sss_snake.” 

“Bitch.”

Mary makes no movements to roll off you, so you draw circles through the sweat on his back and watch the minutes tick by on your digital clock. When 5min go by, you wiggle yourself out from under him and off the bed. His one hand blindly gropes for you, but he knows from experience you won’t be swayed. He turns his head enough that he can crack one eye open at you.

“Bring back coffee.”

“I’m sorry—do you think this is a restaurant?” you mock scoff at him, arms akimbo.

His hand flops at you.

“I did most of the work back there. I demand fuel in exchange for that orgasm.”

“A coffee whore, huh?” you quip as you shrug on your robe.

“More like the barter system. A fair trade.”

You knee back onto the bed.

“Except I can give myself my own orgasms, whereas you never bring me coffee.”

Mary narrows his eyes at you.

“I’d argue with you, but somehow I think you’re trying to get free orgasms out of me.”

You grab your tits through your robe and waggle them at him.

“I don’t need to argue with you to get free orgasms.”

His eye follows the jiggle and lingers before snapping back up to you.

“Whatever. Just be nice and bring me fucking coffee.”

You lean forward.

“As a _ssssnake_,” you hiss into his ear. He arm shoots out into the gaping ends of your robe, and his hand gropes your one tit. You squeal and tumble away from him as he cackles.

You do the cold floor dance as you make your way into the kitchen to start the coffee drip, performing the reprise as you make your way into the bathroom. A washcloth that would cool in no time has no allure for you, so you start the shower, peeing as you wait for the water to heat up. Soon, the bathroom is filling up with warm steam, and you shuck off your robe—tossing it over the sink as you slip into the scalding hot spray.

Washing yourself doesn’t take long, but you’re rooted to the spot by the siren call of the hot water—if you stand there long enough, maybe your bones will warm up. At some point Mary comes in, and you hear him use the toilet.

“Coffee’s no use to me cold. You ever coming back out, woman?”

“Whenever I damn well please, fuckhead. Get your own damn coffee if you’re so impatient, dude.”

Mary flushes the toilet, and you shriek when the hot water stutters and you’re hit with the slap of ice-cold water.

When you finally emerge, you’re pink and flushed, your hair damp enough that you have to towel it off. You’re irritated to find that Mary’s been _nice_ and has left you your woolen feeties. You slip them on and steel yourself for what will no doubt feel like the arctic tundra after your searing shower.

The steam swirls out around you as you open the door, and for a moment the room almost feels ok … but then you walk a few steps, and the cold air seems to find any moist spot still on your skin. You hurry to the kitchen only to find that—by the level in the pot—Mary probably already has a mug for you.

In your room, you find Mary nested in your covers as he reads his Cormac McCarthy book. Next to him is your tray with the two mugs and a plate piled high with buttered toast. You make quick work of changing from your robe into the Frankenstein tee of Mary’s you’ve appropriated and a pair of boy shorts—a compromise between your pjs and full nudity. Mary only glances at you before he goes back to his book. You jostle him for an equal share of the covers and he makes an aggrieved noise at you.

“I did your fucking job, and now you’re hogging the covers.”

“Do something about it.”

You see him consider it, but in the end he helps you wrap the comforter around you both. You beam up at him with an exaggerated smile and he shoves his palm in your face.

“Stop being impossible and eat this meal I slaved over.”

Reaching your arm out of the warm cocoon, you grab the triangle of toast that already has a bite out of it.

“Jesus fucking Christ, Suey.”

“What?” you say, mouth full of bread. “It always tastes better when it’s yours.”

Mary retaliates by quickly grabbing up all the pieces and taking a big bite out of all of them. You laugh at his chipmunk cheeks. He chews aggressively at you, and you hand him his half-full cup of coffee to wash down the food when he starts to cough. Picking up your own mug, you’re unsurprised to find that your coffee is lukewarm—though you’re not going to let Mary know you’ve noticed. One of his pet peeves is slurping, so you make sure to sip and slurp as loudly as possible.

When he turns murderous eyes on you, you laugh and instantly choke on the liquid you’ve just inhaled. You’re still laughing even as you cough and hack, and Mary starts pounding you annoyingly hard on the back.

“I’m not even sorry for you. This is the Universe getting you back. Christ you’re in a mood this morning.”

You pick up another slice of toast. 

“I blame the serotonin. It’s your fault, really.”

He snatches the slice from you and shoves it into his mouth.

“Hmm, I’ll be more careful in the future ,” he says around the mouthful, specks flying out and spattering your face.

“Ugh! Mary, don’t be gross!” you exclaim as you put your hand up as a shield.

He just laughs at you.

Mary somehow manipulates you into his lap, and you feed him bites of toast until the two of you finish the breakfast as he reads aloud from the pages of his book. 

“ ‘… All the horsemen's faces gaudy and grotesque with daubings like a company of mounted clowns, death hilarious, all howling in a barbarous tongue and riding down upon them like a horde from a hell more horrible yet than the brimstone land of Christian reckoning—’ ”

Despite the food and coffee, you’re getting hit with the sleeps, and you squirm around, grunting at Mary until he reclines. You curl into his chest—bare and warm despite the chill in the room—and Mary continues reading in silence.

You fall into a doze, and when you wake, Mary’s arms are wrapped around you, his nose pressed into your hair.

“Mmm. I feel asleep.”

Mary sighs contentedly and loosens his hold.

“Wasn’t that the point?”

“Maybe.”

You roll off him onto your stomach and glance at the clock, surprised to find it’s nearly 2pm. It was around 8am when Mary woke you up with his hand between your legs.

“Shit,” you say. “I leave tonight, and then I won’t see you til New Year’s. We’ve practically wasted the whole day.” You press your face into your folded arms.

Mary sets his book on your night table and koalas himself around you.

“I wouldn’t say we wasted it. In fact,” he presses his face into your neck, “I don’t think we should move from here until we have to.” He nips at you. “Let’s be decadent.”

“Does that mean I get more serotonin?” you murmur into your arms.

“Actually …” draws out Mary, and then suddenly his warm presence against you is gone. You turn your face toward him and see he’s leaning off the side of the bed. When he rights himself, he throws a newspaper at your face.

“_Mare_,” you grunt as you flinch away. The paper lands just short of you, and your eyes fixate on the paper; as they focus, however, you see that the newspaper is actually a paper packet with a matching newsprint bow.

“Mare … what’s this?”

He shrugs.

You pull yourself up and pick up the packet—no, the _present_. You look down at it, then up at Mary—but he’s not looking at you, his gaze firmly directed at his fingers.

Shit. Shit shit _shit_.

You feel your blood drain, then rise into your face, because you have nothing, _nothing_ for Mary. You can’t remember the last time you exchanged holiday presents with _anyone_ unless it was the drinks tab.

“I-I didn’t realize we were … we never said …”

But _of course_ you should have known Mary would want to exchange presents. 

He does turn his eyes to you then, and reaches out in an aborted attempt to take your hand.

“You already do enough for me.”

You break his gaze, flicking your own eyes down to the package in your hands.

“Don’t be fucking mushy, Mary,” you say softly and without intent.

“Open it,” he prompts when you make no motions to proceed further.

Your shaking fingers trace the paper looking for a seam—when you find it, you slip your trembling index finger under it, popping out the one side. It’s easy enough after that to jiggle out the contents into your awaiting palm: it's a thin, rectangular jewelry box, and you wonder what’s inside.

When you continue to just stare at it, Mary leans forward—his elegant hands sandwiching yours—and opens it for you. You’re embarrassed to see that the jewelry box actually contains … jewelry (it’s not just convenient packaging). The peek of rose gold chain stands out against the faux velvet lining. The pendant sits in its own placeholder—a rose gold guitar pick and a tiny opal (your birthstone, and hadn’t Mary been furious when he found out you hadn’t told him about your birthday—but you weren’t quite ready for the spectacle you knew he’d create around the day. Seems he’s getting you back now …) that hang from the connecting link. 

Mary is practically in your lap, and he takes the box out of your hands, his fingers scrabbling to get the necklace out.

“It’s, um. It’s one of my guitar picks. Turns out they could plate it to match.” He lets it dangle from his fingers.

You reach out your hand so that the pendant is resting against your palm.

“And it’s all ethical. I have a paper somewhere.”

When you flick your eyes up, Mary is still looking down and biting his lip.

“Mare … how did you …?”

He shrugs again.

“I had too many guitars.”

You look up at him plaintively.

“_Mary_.”

His eyes meet yours, and his gaze is clear and intense.

“I don’t need 5 fucking guitars, Suey. Just fucking accept I wanted to get you something nice.”

“But I can’t—”

“Do you not fucking like it?” he challenges.

You bite your own lip.

“No, I do.”

He glares at you.

“Then put it on.”

The two of you stare at each other in a silent showdown until you angle away from him and tilt your head down so Mary can put the necklace on you. You feel Mary shift behind you, and then he’s draping the necklace around your neck.

“Pardon my goddamned clumsy fingers,” he says as he fumbles with the clasp behind you.

“You’re a fucking guitarist, Mary. Get it together.”

He snorts at you, but quickly finishes catching the chain. You turn back around, your hand reflexively going to the pendant. Mary gently removes your hand, his eyes assessing. He trails a finger down the chain.

“Mum always said silver was for girls and gold for women.”

As if your eyes have a mind of their own, they glance down at her ring on Mary’s right hand. You register now that it’s also rose gold. You quickly look away and back up at Mary—but he’s still admiring the drape of the necklace on your clavicle. You recognize that this is a Tender Moment™️, and you wonder if the appropriate response is to kiss him, or if that would bring something sexual into a very un-sexual moment,

While your train of thought is 3 stops down, Mary’s is apparently still in the station.

“She used to let me help put on her own sometimes. She'd say it was practice. I didn’t quite get it at the time.”

You reach your hand up to cup his face and thumb at his cheekbone. Mary leans forward, but it’s only to press his forehead into yours. He heaves a great, heavy sigh … and then he’s kissing you—a soft press of lips on lips at first, but then his hand is behind your head and pressing you into him hard as his mouth opens and his tongue goes for your tonsils. Then he grasps your hair and wrenches your head to the side so he can worry the skin of your neck between his teeth.

When he reaches the chain, you feel him give you a wet kiss around it. Then he’s yanking down the collar of the tee so his can sink his teeth into your shoulder (you hear a rip, but Mary doesn’t seem to give a fuck). You try to climb into his lap to grind into him, but he presses you down with a firm hand on your chest. You’re happy to let him drive, glad the responsibility of how to react has been taken out of your hands.

He reaches down and unceremoniously yanks at your boy shorts, and you kick your legs to help get them off. You’re expecting him to fuck you, but instead he bends down to kiss and bite your belly. He makes his way down to your pussy, where he gives a few cursory laps—hardly enough to rev you up—before he’s turning his head to bite your inner thigh. It’s a **hard** bite—one sure to bruise in earnest—and you yelp, flinching away from him reflexively.

Mary mumbles a soft apology before pressing a quick kiss to the hurt, and then he’s climbing up you, rucking the tee shirt up over your breasts. He laves at one nipple and then the other, bringing up his hand to assist. You feel a bit of teeth on the nub, but before you can say anything, he brings them down in another painful bite.

“FUCK OW, MARE,” you yell as you yank him by his hair away from you. “Not so hard, ok?”

He makes a frustrated noise and presses his face into your stomach. You pet his head before sinking in your fingers into his locks to massage his scalp.

“Hey, it’s ok, buddy. What do you need?”

[“Fuck. I dunno. I just. Want to consume you. Cut you open and crawl inside you.”](https://il-papa-patata.tumblr.com/post/618967724076498944/hey-its-ok-buddy-what-do-you-need-fuck-i)

Okay.

“Yeah, well. How about something that’s a little more doable?” You think. “Do you … want to fuck—”

“_No_.”

Hmm.

“Do you … want to spank … me?”

He whines in dissent and grabs at your love handles.

“Do _you_ want the brush?”

He sighs. “I dunno. Mebbe.”

“Is that a _maybe_ maybe, or a ‘yes’ maybe.”

Mary rubs his face into you. “Yes, please. Want something to remind me of you while you’re away.”

A little thrill runs through you at the idea of Mary squirming his way through Christmas dinner and his jeans chafing his bottom as he scurries about Mickey’s bar.

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah.”

“Ok. Go get your brush and get into position over the back of the couch.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Once Mary leaves, you tug on your pajama bottoms and a hoodie. For once, your vibrator is where it’s supposed to be and plugged in; you detach it and stuff it into your pouch. You step out into your living area, and note with approval that Mary has followed your directions. It’s a little warmer now—the afternoon sun must be working it’s magic—but it’s still uncomfortable.

Saying nothing, you make your way into the kitchen so you can prep Mary’s aftercare needs—ibuprofen and chocolates from his coffin, a glass of his Pedialyte (well, half—apparently you need a restock), and a quick check that the ice wrap is in the freezer.

Once that’s all set, you make your way in front of the couch so that you’re in Mary’s line of sight. You extract your vibrator from your pouch and hold it up.

“When we’re done, I’m going to use this on your dick. Shake your head at me now if you don’t want that.” (Mary’s mouth is full with the handle of his brush.)

He meets your gaze—eyes steady, but blown wide—but doesn’t move his head.

“Ok, then.”

You circle back around so that you’re behind Mary, and you yank down his boxer briefs so that they pool around his ankles. He shivers a little—but you can’t tell if it’s from the chill air on his exposed skin or the anticipation. You give a squeeze to each cheek of his bubble butt, then reach around to take the hairbrush out of his mouth.

“And if you need me to stop at any point?”

“Nickleback, ma’am.”

“Good boy.”

You rub the head of the brush over each cheek of his ass.

“You seem to like 30, so that’s what we’ll do. You’ll count and you’ll thank me. If you mess up, I add 5 more. Do you understand?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

You swing back your arm and land the first blow down on the meat of his one cheek—it makes a satisfying _thwack_.

“Ah! One, thank you, ma’am.”

His other cheek. _Thwack_.

“Uhn … two, thank you ma’am.”

You make sure to get all his sit spots, and by 5 he’s beginning to pant.

_Thwack_.

“Six! Thank you, ma’am!”

_Thwack_.

“Seven! Thank you ma’am!”

_Thwack_.

“_Fuck_ … eight! T-Thank you, ma’am.”

_Thwack_.

Mary exhales sharply, but doesn’t say anything. You lightly tap him.

“What was that?”

“Uh, t-ten. Ten—thank you, ma’am.”

You _tsk_.

“It’s actually nine. That’s 5 more, buddy.”

Mary just grunts.

When you get to 15, Mary’s voice begins to waver. At 20, his legs twist, but a light crack to his thigh near his balls has him straightening. He miscounts 25, so you add another 5—which causes him to whimper. Twenty-eight has him bouncing on the balls of his feet, and 35 has him sniffling.

_Thwack_.

“Thirtyninethankyoumaam!”

_Thwack_.

“Fortythankyoumaam!”

“All done. There you go, my good boy,” you say as you run your hand over the warmed skin of his now-red ass.

Mary’s chest is heaving, and he presses his face into the couch as he sniffles. You take out the vibrator again and—keeping it at its highest setting—press the rounded tip into where his balls meet his half-hard dick. Mary let’s out an _Ah_ of surprise as he lurches forward into the back of the couch.

You press more insistently.

“Oh shit, oh fuck, oh shit!”

Mary is tensing and jerking, his legs trembling. You trail the vibrator down to the sweet spot on his cockhead and grab a handful of his ass, hard.

“Oh my god! Oh _shit_ … fuck, Suey!”

You run it lightly up and down the vein a few times.

“Oh my god, oh my god … _hhhghh_!”

Again, you press it just under his cockhead and grab his other cheek.

“I can’t! Fuck, I can’t … _please_.”

“None of those are the magic word, buddy.”

Mary whines and his feet scrabble. You run the vibrator back down the vein in his cock, press into the base for a few seconds, then run it back up.

“_Pleasepleasepleaseplease_ …” chants Mary—though you don’t know for what he’s pleading. He lets out a throaty moan, and then he’s cumming in shooting pulses—his balls pulsating and his cock kicking—onto the couch back and the floor.

You really ought to get that cover for your couch. 

You click down the vibration speed, but you don’t remove the toy—not yet. Mary twitches a few more times before his torso melts into the couch, and then you turn off your vibe.

He’s back heaves with his pants, and then it starts to shake with his sobs. You clamber up onto the back of the couch and maneuver him into your arms; he buries his head into the crook of your neck, and you wrap your legs around his lower legs.

“There you go, buddy,” you say as you rub his back. “That’s it—there you go … let it out. That’s a good boy. What a good job you did. I’m so impressed.”

You hold him like that—murmuring endearments into his skin—until his sobs subside into sniffles. He stands up straight, pulling away from you and wrapping his arms around his naked torso; his eyes are red and his face blotchy. His nose is running, and you use the excess of your hoodie sleeve to mop up the snot.

“Can you get back into bed on your own?”

He nods. You help him step out of his boxer briefs before he stiffly makes his way slowly back to your room. The ice wrap and the chocolates go inside your pouch, but you carry the pills and drink in your hands. Once in the room, you find Mary on his stomach, his face pillowed in his arms.

“Ice pack, buddy,” you say as you lay it across his mottled flesh. He hisses but makes no further complaint. 

You feed him the ibuprofen and tip the liquid into his mouth until he turns his head away. After that you get his head into your lap and fold the ends of the comforter over him, stroking through his hair and feeding him chocolates to suck on while breathing praise until he relaxes into sleep.

After a little bit, you decide to get some food ready so Mary has something solid in his stomach. You fold up a pillow and transfer his head from your lap. Checking the ice pack, you find that it’s lost its chill, so you take it with you.

You used to joke that your fridge always looked like a college boy’s, but since Mary started coming around more, you’ve made more of an effort to at least try. Occasionally you’ll find surprise items that you’re sure came from the Latin grocer near Mary’s apartment.

Your hand finds the pendant; you wonder if the shine will ever wear off.

In the end, you dump the dribs and drabs from various Chinese takeout leftovers and part of your frozen vegetable medley into a frying pan, cracking two eggs over them. Too late you’d realized you had no soft tortillas left, so you’d halved a Bisquik pancake recipe and tried to fry them as thin as possible. Despite your efforts to make a wrap, the thin pancakes had cracked and crumbled, making more of a veggie, doughy mush.

You bring the plate and the again-cold ice wrap into your bedroom and are unsurprised to find Mary still sleeping, his arms now wrapped around the pillow. You’re reluctant to wake him, so you set the plate down on the night table as you gingerly climb back into bed and start stroking his head.

Eventually he rouses, snuffling into the pillow and whining when he shifts.

“I know, buddy—but I brought you some dinner.”

Mary turns his head toward you and blinks up at you owlishly.

“That’s right. Can you sit up, or …?”

Taking the comforter with him, Mary slides onto the floor beside the bed, whining when his ass makes contact with the floor. 

“Ok, buddy,” you say as you hand him the ice wrap. He takes it, and it disappears into his cocoon. You swing your legs off the bed so that Mary can lean against your leg and you can rest the plate in your lap. Despite the structural integrity problem of your meal, you’re able to feed bites of the food to Mary easily enough. He finishes every bite, resting his head on your thigh once you’re done.

“More?” you ask—but he gives a minute shake of his head, so you continue running your fingers through his hair.

Finally, Mary gives a sigh, and he climbs up the bed and onto you. He rubs his face into your neck—despite the presence of the chain—and then tilts his face up to kiss you. You turn your head to meet his lips, and the two of you shuffle about until you’re both on your sides, limbs tangled.

“Thank you,” he breathes.

You brush his limp hair away from his face.

“Of course, Mare. I just want you to be happy.” 

He sighs. “I’m sorry about … earlier.”

You feel your face contort in confusion.

“Earlier?”

Mary’s hand lightly brushes at your thigh.

“I hurt you.”

You hum. “Maybe a little. But I already forgot about it.” You reach down and gently squeeze his ass, and he yelps. “And I think I got you back, in any case.”

“We’re in a fight,” he huffs, but he’s running his hands under your clothes and over your curves.

Hooking your leg over him you say, “How ‘bout a peace offering?” He grunts. “When the bite blossoms nice and blue, I’ll send you a pic. For your collection.”

You hadn’t even noticed his dick hardening, but at your words, it twitches against you.

“Oh … you like that, do you?”

“Shaddup.”

The two of you lay like that—tangled together on your sides with light caresses—even though your clit is throbbing and Mary’s dick is hard. You’re dying to grind against him—to press your clit into him while you can breathe in his musk—but you know Mary can get funny about arousal versus intent, so you refrain.

“Fuck. I can smell you,” he says.

“Hmm?”

His hand slips past the waistline of your pants, his fingers slipping in between your wet labia.

“Oh—_uhn_,” you moan.

He works at your clit with the pad of a finger before plunging it toward your hole and then back up again to coat it in your slick.

“I can practically fucking taste you when you’re horny.”

“You don’t—”

“_Shut up_.”

You moan again as he presses harder.

“I’m gonna make you cum so hard.”

Twitching into him you say, “Can I touch you?”

“No.”

“Just wanna feel your hard cock.”

Mary growls. “Just feel it.”

Hastily, you plunge your hand down to wrap your hand around his dick. He grunts at the touch, but—respecting his wants—you don’t do anything else. Mary is tapping at your clit, and it’s like you can feel your wetness drip down your thighs. He’s stroking his finger from your clit down to your hole and back, and it’s hitting all your pleasure spots. You’re jerking and twitching against him, your arousal building and your hand giving accidental squeezes to his dick to the pulse in your cunt.

“Oh fuck, Mary—oh fuck!”

And then he rolls away. 

You make a strangled noise.

“What the fuck,” you whine, bereft.

“Where’s your vibrator?”

Panting with your need, you fish around in your pouch and press it into him; his hand comes back and clasps around it.

“Want you to squirt all over me.”

“Just keep touching me!” you gasp.

He clicks it on and immediately presses it into your cunt. You howl at the sensation, but his arm around your shoulders holds you firm so that you can’t squirm away. Even expecting it, it’s way too much, and you buck and thrash against his hold. You feel the burning pleasure building up, and you’re forced to bear down as your muscles contract in orgasm. You scream as you climax, the warm liquid trickling down your thighs as the vibrator assaults your clit.

You know Mary would keep it on you, so you yank his hand away and then mash yourself into his pelvis as you ride out the pulsating throbs. You’re not sure if you found his mouth or he found yours, but all of a sudden the two of you are sucking at each other’s tongues.

Afterwards you’re a boneless, pliant jelly—no good for anything except being used. You let Mary rub his dick against you, then in between your thighs.

“Fuck,” he spits as he thrusts. “I love smelling you on me all night.

You squeeze your legs together tighter, and Mary speeds up.

“_Shit_ . You make me so _hot_. Why do you make me so hot?”

“Fucking cum all over me,” you drawl lazily.

Mary extracts his dick from your thighs and pushes you onto your back. Between the two of you, you get your hoodie pushed up, and then his hand is flying in between his legs. His eyes close, his mouth opens, and then his cum is shooting out of his dick and splattering hot and sticky on your stomach. You watch the pink of his cockhead disappear in his fist and then reappear with droplets of cum that he squeezes onto you as he milks himself. And then he’s collapsing on you, panting hard. 

He groans.

“Shit. I don’t think I can cum any more today.”

“You said you wanted to be decadent.”

He rubs his nose into your shoulder. “I meant we should eat that ice cream you think you have hidden in the back of your freezer and watch Netflix.”

“What ice cream,” you scoff. (It’s pumpkin.)

Mary huffs a laugh.

Despite the cooling mess between the two of you and the chill against the bare of your skin, neither of you feel the urge to move. You stroke Mary’s back until you drift off into a light doze; you’re vaguely aware of him petting you, but it’s not until he starts fingering the necklace that you swim back to awareness.

“So … you really do like it?”

You press a kiss into his hair.

“Yes, Mare—I do. You didn’t … I’m happy enough with just you. You didn’t need to … but I do like it.”

He continues to play with it.

“Mum said …” Mary trails off.

“What?”

He sighs. “It’s going to sound reductive.”

“What, Mare?”

A beat.

“Mum said … to invest in things I was serious about.” He shifts up onto his arms. “That’s why I had 5 guitars. It’s why I don’t go out with a bare face.” He leans to one side so that he can touch the necklace. “When you look at this, I want you to remember—to _know_—that I’m serious about you.”

Your gut turns over. So you deflect.

“Shit, Goore. You saying I’m on par with your instruments?”

Mary’s open earnestness transforms into a smirk.

“I wouldn’t say that—I still have 4.”

“Tell me true—did you sell the one I slimed?”

He shifts so that he’s back above you.

“Why would I sell that one?”

“So you didn’t have to clean it.”

He presses his nose to yours.

“And why would I clean it?”

“Because you’re surprisingly fastidious about some shit.”

He mock gasps. “Take that back!”

“Oh? So I can slime the other 3, then?”

“Of course.”

“Good.”

“Do it.”

“I will.”

He narrows his eyes at you. You widen your smile into a rictus.

“Shit,” he exhales. “Please don’t misuse my other guitars.”

You cackle at him. “I _win_,” you sing-song.

“You do,” he sighs.

The two of you spend the rest of the time you have left with Mary lounging in your bed, re-icing his ass. You find where Mary left off and continue reading aloud from his McCarthy book. At some point you get the rest of the cold, now-congealed dinner, and the two of you share it. When you finally have to start getting ready to leave, you watch—amused—as Mary tries to gingerly wiggle into his jeans. He gives you an exaggerated scowl.

You bounce off the bed to encircle his small waist. 

“I don’t know why you’re so put out. I thought you wanted a reminder of me while we’re apart.”

Before he can stop you, your hands slide down and grab handfuls of his ass. He swears and hops, but you just grip harder, smiling up at him. He finally succeeds in pushing you away.

“Fuck, Suey. You’re so fucking mean.”

“As a _sss_snake,” you smirk.

He pouts at you, so you draw him back in, in apology.

“Aww, don’t be like that. I really do want you to think of me.” You look up at him, touching the pendant. “I have this to remind me of you.”

Mary narrows his eyes at you, even though he doesn’t pull away.

“You get, like, a month to use that as a get out of jail free card for bitchiness—then I’m cutting you off.”

You draw him closer.

“That sounds fair.”

“Mmm.”

His arms wrap around you, and he sighs contentedly.

“I have to go,” you say.

“I know.”

He doesn’t let go. You look up and grasp him by the jaw.

“Hey—I’ll be back in less than a week, you know.”

“You better.”


	17. But Can You Hang?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another milestone—will Suey pass or fail?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, hullooo, lovelies. This is still very much a WIP, but I got some much needed fleshing out done, so expect chapters at a much less drawn out interludes.
> 
> Now, pls enjoy these two feral gremlins.
> 
> #  **Part 2**

“It’s just some beers with my crew. Kinda a pre-New Year’s thing, but smaller. I still gotta work and shit later.”

You hadn’t even been home 24hrs before Mary was banging through your door. You’d all but collapsed the night before, shooting off a text to Mary warning him against disturbing you upon pain of death. He’d kept to the letter of the law, if not the spirit.

Christmas had been fun but _ full _ —complete with a Christmas Eve ice storm that had knocked out the power and left the lot of you to drink all the supplies by candlelight before huddling into a pile of sleeping bags and blankets for warmth. Christmas Day had been a mess of transferring food from the fridge into the snow and sledding down the frozen street hill on cardboard boxes, trying not to sustain any life-threatening injuries. Power had come on just before dusk, and it had been someone’s bright idea to turn the oven up to max to cook the partially defrosted turkey faster. _ That _ had ended with a kitchen full of smoke and a bird that was blackened on the outside and still frozen on the inside. In the end, you’d all chipped in for a traditional spread of Chinese takeout. All-in-all, it was three days of shenanigans and drinking (and subtle digs at you for “settling down”), and the morning of the fourth was filled with painkillers and regret. 

The drive back was quiet while you all contemplated your poor life decisions and passed around the pickle juice. When you got back to your place, you’d dumped your stuff by the couch and crawled immediately into bed.

“Ok,” you say as you try to sort through your pile of mail. Mary had finally taken a firm stand(_“If this mountain falls on me one more time, I’m burning it, Suey.”_ **“Don’t touch my things!”** _“Then deal with them!”_). He’d come over the other week with a metal mail organizer that has seen better days (**“Did you pick this out of the trash?”** _“Naw. I got it from my buddy Big Stevie. _He_ might have got it from the trash.”_), so you’ve been making an effort to deal with your inbox.

Since the couch has been commandeered by piles of envelopes, Mary leans against the wall. “It’ll only be for a couple of hours.”

“Ok,” you say again, absently—you’re trying to discern if this one particular item is junk or one of those clandestine correspondences from your bank.

“So ….”

“So have fun.” You rip the envelope open with your nail file and—ta da! Junk mail. At the lack of response from Mary, you look up. He’s giving you an unreadable look. “What? Sorry. Didn’t mean to sound so short. I really don’t mind if you want to go drink with your friends. I hope you don’t think you need to ask my permission …”

Mary presses his fingers into his eyes.

“I’m not asking permission, you daft cow—I’m asking you to come with me.”

“Oh.”

When you don’t continue, he tries again. “So: do you want to come with me? Meet my friends before the party and all?”

You look down at your lap covered in tattered paper.

Your brain catches up to what he’s saying, and you feel the blood drain from your face. You hear the paper crumple in your hands when you say, “This is a _ meet your friends _ thing?”

“Uh, yeah?” He squints at you.

You make an agitated noise in your throat, and you begin to stack your letters back together. Mary throws out his hands.

“What are you doing?!”

“Jesus, Mary—I look like death warmed over and I feel like a mealy potato. A little fucking _ warning _ would have been nice. Now I have to perform magic.”

"You were so close!” he whines as you drop the pile back in the place mail goes to die.

You stomp to your room and slam the door shut so that you can rifle through the clothes on the hook. It’s a surprise when the door opens and you’re beaned in the face.

“_ Ow _ , _ FUCK _.”

“Oh shit, sorry!”

“Why didn’t you knock?!” you say as you rub your nose.

“I—because … why were you just standing behind the door?!”

Glaring at him, you gesture at the clothes. His eyes follow your hand.

“Oh.” He looks back and you and suddenly starts laughing.

“It’s not funny, asshole.”

He’s still chuckling when he leans over, grabbing your chin to tilt up your face.

“Hmm.” He pretends to examine your face, eyes darting around to assess the damage.

“Well, will I live, doctor?”

“Yeah, I think you’ll be all right. Might need to amputate the nose, though.”

“That bad?”

“Yes. It’s terrible.”

“A lot of bruising, then?”

“It’s definitely an eyesore.”

You lean forward and stick your tongue into his nostril. Mary sputters out an _ Ack _ as he stumbles backwards away from you. He’s pulling at his nose and scrunching his face at you.

“Don’t be fucking weird.”

“I’ll do whatever I damn well please, Mary Goore” you say, as you go back to rifling through your options, tossing choices onto your bed. Mary wanders over and reclines on your bed; he paws through your discards and occasionally holds one up to himself. You settle on a graphic tee that you altered into a halter and a denim miniskirt; you shimmy out of your loungewear and then into the mini.

Suddenly Mary presses himself into your back and pins you against your door. His hand slips down the curve of your ass and under your skirt, fingers pressing on your perineum. You gasp.

“Mmm, I like this skirt very much.” He massages you. “Can I fuck you in it?”

“But—_ oh fuck _—but your friends …?” You press back into him and feel his erection on your ass.

“My friends know I live on Mary Standard Time—now: can I fuck you. In this skirt?”

He leans down to suck a bruise into your neck as his other hand wraps around to squeeze at a nipple. You groan, then turn around so you suck his lips into your mouth. He hums an _ Mmm _ into your kiss, and you make quick work of undoing his jeans and shoving them down his legs. The two of you fumble until you’ve got your legs and arms wrapped around him and he’s got his arms hooked under your thighs, pressing you against the door. He lets an arm go and quickly maneuvers his dick inside you.

“Oh fuck … oh fuck,” he chants when the tip enters you.

You cry out, “Oh shit—_ slowly _, Mare.”

He looks up at you, face red and body trembling. “You ok?”

“Yeah,” you say, “just not so fast—I’m not … I wasn’t …”

“Yeah, ok—sorry.”

He rocks his pelvis slowly, easing himself deeper into you inch by inch with every thrust. His forehead is pressed to yours.

“You feel so good. So wet around my cock. Your fucking cunt—so tight.”

You moan at his words as he continues to ease his cock in and out of you.

“Fucking love how you give me your cock, Mary.”

Mary starts to speed up. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“You like my fucking cock inside you?”

“Fucking fills me up so good.”

His mouth finds yours, and he presses his tongue into you gracelessly. With every increasing thrust of his hips, you can hear the door jolt against its hinges. All you can really do is koala onto him tight as he struggles to fuck into you. Without warning, he turns and tosses you onto your bed. You bounce once as he’s shucking off his jeans and then crawling over you and guiding himself back inside. 

“Wrap your legs around me.” 

You do, and he straightens himself up onto his knees, his one hand reaching down to thumb at your pulsing clit. He starts pumping into you again, and you reach your arms behind you to brace yourself.

“Wanna see it,” he pants. “Wanna see your face when you cum around my cock. Wanna see you come undone because of me.” There’s a tinge of desperation in his voice.

“So eager to please me, Mary” you purr. “Such a good boy. Is my good boy going to make me cum?”

Mary whines low in his throat. He slows his thrusts, shifting around until you moan when he hits your G-spot. He concentrates on that spot as he uses your slick to slip slide his thumb on your ever-hardening clit. You’re breathing out _ oh my god oh my god oh my god. _

“Fucking. Hand me your vibrator—I want you to squirt all over me.”

You loll your head around until you can see where your vibrator is poking out from under your pillow. You grapple behind you until you’ve got a hold of it. Mary all but tears it from your grasp as you offer it to him. You’re about to remind him what settings you like, when he just turns it on and places it directly on your clit.

“OH FUCKING SHIT,” you cry out as the stimulation is ramped up to 100—and then your pussy explodes in hot burts. You feel the telltale trickle as you do indeed squirt messily all over his cock before jerking away from the overstimulation. 

You lose a little time as you wait for the pulsating throb between your legs to calm down, but tune back in easily enough when you feel the splatter of Mary’s cum on your nethers.

You lazily gaze up at him as he finishes squeezing every last drop from his cock—the pink of his cockhead disappearing and reappearing in his fist. When he’s satisfied, his whole body slumps, and then he’s flopping down beside you, practically trying to merge with you as he presses his face into the juncture of your neck and shoulder.

“Oh fuck, that was so hot.”

He’s grabbing at your curves and biting along your shoulder. You tolerate it for the moment, scritching at his scalp.

"Mmm … very good. Thank you.”

He sighs, and one of his hands brushes over your still-hard nipples. If he keeps that up, you guys will never leave, so you sit up, jostling his hand away.

“Shit,” you say, looking down at yourself and the bed.

“What?”

“Nothing, just—this skirt and basically everything on my bed are toast.”

Mary follows your gaze. “Oh,” he says, but he’s smiling wickedly at you.

You roll off the bed and begin to tug off your skirt.

“Ok, Mr. Way-Too-Pleased-With-Himself—since I have to shower, _ you _ can deal with shoving these in the washer.”

Mary pouts at you even as he’s making movements toward stripping your bed.

“A shower?! We’re running late, you know. Can’t you just—wipe off?”

You give him a mean lemon face.

He grins at you.

* * *

Because half your passable outside clothes got slimed in your and Mary’s amorous interlude, you had a limited wardrobe to pick from. You ended up in a shapeless, cream knit-tunic dress—which you had to dye brown with a tea wash due to the numerous stains (can’t take you anywhere)—paired with a wide belt, grey argyle tights, and your peeling docs. 

You’re giving him Grump Face, but he’s just beaming at you.

“I’m not sorry. And you look hot. Stop fussing.”

He ushers you into his neighborhood dive bar, a light hand at the small of your back. You’ve definitely been here before—never in context with Mary—usually as a stop on a bar crawl. It’s an old man pub during the day and a punk go to after hours. Mary steers you toward a high-top where there are maybe 5 people congregating with various levels of beer consumption. They’re all on the punk scale—ranging from dirty gutter punk to clean & stylized.

When they see Mary, they all perk up. There are high-fives and back slaps and hugs. Mary steps back and introduces you to everyone—you’re so intent on smiling normally and not like The Joker that you immediately forget everyone’s name.

“So you _ do _ exist,” says the woman with perfect winged eyeliner and a mustard beanie.

“Unfortunately,” you quip, and they give you a polite chuckle.

There are a few more careful questions about you before the conversation turns to one of familiar friends rehashing old grounds. Mary is happy, at ease, content to give as good as he gets. You’re content to sip your beers and do a round of shots as they joke and gripe at each other. There’s not much you can do to contribute—it’s not like you were there the night they got pissed and decided to egg cop cars, or have any point of reference for what Ed looked like when he burned half his scalp and a chunk of his hair fell out after he ignored the at-home bleach kit instructions. But Mary’s arm drapes over your shoulders like a letterman jacket, and you’ve rooted your hand firmly in one of his back pockets—a firm statement of inclusion.

Kara (much less makeup and in a ratty tee and jeans) and Elsie (mustard beanie), have gone to get another round of shitty lite beer, when you beg off to visit the ladies' room.

“You ok?” Mary mummers in your ear.

“Other than having to pee like a racehorse, I’m peachy,” you retort.

He sends you off with a playful slap to your ass.

A dive bar bathroom is a dive bar bathroom is a dive bar bathroom—but this one doesn’t reek too bad. You slip into a stall, happy to relieve the pressure on your bladder. You suddenly become aware that Kara and Elsie are in the big stall; you wonder if you should say something, but you’re 100% sure the 3 of you aren’t at bathroom stalls-level of friendship yet. So you just do your business.

You’re rethinking your decision when it’s clear their discussion turns to you.

“So what do you think of her?”

“Mary’s so-called girlfriend?”

“Yeah.”

The toilet flushes.

“Mmm. She’s ok, I guess. Seems nice enough.”

“Yeah, she seems totally sweet.”

“But … ”

“Yeah.”

The stall’s door lock clicks, and it opens.

“Like, a _ nice _ girl—but what’s she doing with Mary?”

“Yeah, I don’t get … _ them _.”

“I was expecting … I dunno. Apparently she’s supposed to be this big-ass bitch, and … I just don’t see it?”

The faucets turn on.

“Right?! Exactly! She’s kinda … ?”

“… mousey?”

“I mean—for Mary, anyway. He’s kinda a handful. I love him to death—you know I do—but he’s obsessed with keeping his dick wet. Can you really see her … ?”

The automatic driers turn on.

“I mean, whatever. If he’s happy. Maybe there are hidden depths.”

“Oh absolutely. As long as he’s happy. And if she can hang, whatever.”

The driers stop.

“Maybe we just gotta get her loosened up! More shots!”

The creak of the bathroom door as it opens.

“Yes! It’s always the quiet ones.”

You let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding. _ Mousey _? Well, you’ll show them mousey.

Not wanting to come back _ immediately _ after them, you spend a little time primping in the corroded mirror. When you get back to the table, you note that Kara and Elsie are looking at you with wide eyes. 

“Was gonna send a search party. Beginning to think you fell in!” says Mary as his arm comes back around you.

You smile widely at him. “You know how the lines are.”

“_ Pfft _ . Like you care about _ lines _.” He turns to the group and grins. “That’s how we met, after all. Coming out of a stall in the men’s room”

“Whatever,” you sniff as you toss your hair. “You’d’ve been on my shit one way or another. Everyone knows you can’t resist a pair of big tits.”

Ed (green hair fins and a wardrobe like Mary’s—denim, patched and studded) does a spit take and Trevor (black beanie, striped shirt, and angel bite piercings) thumps him on the back a few times.

Mary mock gasps at you. “_ Suey _! My delicate sensibilities!”

You grab your boobs and waggle them at him as you stick out your tongue.

“Hey! That’s my job!” Mary leers at you, and his hands lunge for your chest; you smack them away, hard. “Fuck, _ ow _,” he yips as he shakes out his hand, but he’s smiling.

The group just looks on, bemused.

“Let’s get more shots,” you say to Mary. “I heard they can loosen you up.” You give the women across the table a wink.

Mary follows you without protest, raising his eyebrows when he realizes you’re tugging him toward the bathrooms.

“What’re you up to?”

You pull him in close and cup your hand around his junk.

“I want to give you a blow job.”

Mary’s chest rumbles. His hand clasps your wrist, but he doesn’t remove yours.

“_ Why _?”

You bat your eyelashes at him. “You just got me thinking. Memory lane and all.”

He looks over his shoulder. “But my friends …”

You knead his balls, and his eyes close as he sways into you.

“Don’t you want me on my knees?” you murmur into his jawline. “Lips wrapped around your—”

“_ Fuck _, Suey. You don’t play fair.”

“You know how much I love sucking your cock.”

“Shit. Yeah. _ Yeah _.” He presses his semi into your hand. “Look what you’ve started. You fucking better suck me now.”

“Men’s room. Last stall. I’ll meet you in five minutes.”

He straightens up, and you watch him waddle stiffly to the restroom. 

You hum the tune of a song you think is about 5min, and then you head to the men’s room. When you bang in, there’s a dude at the stalls who screams at you as he covers his dick. 

“You can’t be in here!”

“Your dick’s not special!” you scream back.

When you open the door of the last stall, Mary’s standing there with his pants half down and his hard dick in his hand. You crowd into him, kissing him full and hard.

“Fuck. I’m gonna be in so much shit with my friends. Look at what you do to me.”

You bite his bottom lip and pull it into your mouth.

“They don’t think I can handle you. Think you’re gonna get your dick wet elsewhere. Are you gonna do that? Are you gonna do that when my mouth is pliant and ready?”

Mary’s hands come up to cup your face.

“Hey,” he says as he makes you meet his eyes. “I’m not gonna … I’m not gonna ‘wet my dick’ elsewhere. They don’t know everything.” He thumbs your lips, eyes hooded. “I love your sweet little mouth,” his eyes sweep back up to yours, “but I’m not here for that.”

You give his dick a squeeze and he grunts.

“Ok—you offered to suck me off, and I’m here for _ that _… but in life, in general, that's not why I—not why you’re my baby doll.” His finger lightly taps the necklace pendant.

“I’m not boring,” you say as you mouth at him.

“Hey, hey hey—” he says as he clasps your roving hands. “Is this why we’re here?”

You lead one of his hands under your tunic and into your panties. You’re slick with excitement, and you want him to feel you; he lets out a soft _ Fuck _.

“Maybe a little, but you also get me going when you’re all Mean Skeleton Mary,” you say as you drop to your knees.

Usually you play with Mary a little. Suckle and trace his tip in a tease before sucking him down whole. But now you’re in a time crunch, so you take him down as far as you can go in the first shot. He moans and grasps your hair. You deep throat him, and it’s a messy business—tears stream out your eyes as you gag and half choke on his dick—but you love the sounds he makes (short gasps and half-whispered swears) and the way his legs tremble. He lets you set the pace—his one hand resting on the back of your head and the other lightly petting your cheek—so you alternate between hollowing out your cheeks and swallowing around him, relishing whenever he lets out a _ Fuck _.

Someone bangs on the door at some point, and Mary yells at them to fuck off, but otherwise the unofficial ettiquette seems to state that the other patrons let whomever the lucky bastard is get his.

When you can tell that he’s getting close, you maneuver his other hand onto your head to encourage him to fuck your face. “Fuck yeah,” he breathes as he grips tight into your hair and starts thrusting into your mouth—shallow at first, and then deeper as he gets his bearings. You relax your jaw, making _ glup glup glup _ noises as his cockhead hits the back of your throat. If you weren’t using your hands to brace yourself, you’d be working one between your legs to ease the growing throb there.

Mary’s panting hard now, and he lets out a grunt as he shoves your head down, holding you in place for a moment. You feel his dick throb, and then he’s yanking your head back up. You suck in some air and cough a little before he guides his dick back into your mouth. He slips his other hand down to hook his thumb in your mouth.

“Can I cum on your face?” he gasps as he continues to thrust into you. You hum around his cock, and he pulls out of your mouth, hand quickly jacking himself before his cum splatters hot and sticky on your face. Head back and eyes closed, he rubs his cockhead on your lips, and you suck him in again—relishing his groan as he cock gives another throb before softening in your mouth.

He pulls you up and kisses you (“**Fuck, I’m covered in your jizz, Mare.”** _“I don’t give a shit.”_) before using the bottom of his shirt to wipe off the both of you.

“What a gentleman.”

“Fuck you.”

His hand travels under your dress to press between your legs, and you sway into him with a breathy _ Ah _.

“Shit—you’re practically soaked through.” His head dips to your neck. “Christ. I bet the whole bar could smell you.”

His hand is still pressing into you, and suddenly the thought of spending the rest of the night with this heaviness between your legs seems untenable. “Oh fuck! Touch me, Mare!”

His hand fumbles to work itself into your tights and panties as you find his mouth. You suck his tongue as the pad of his finger starts easily circling your clit, and you suck harder—fingers digging into his arms—as he flicks your nub then taps a morse code on it. As he does another round, you press into him, and he stumbles a bit until his back hits the grody tiles of the wall. You’re making little gasping noises that escape out the corner of your mouth as you rock not just into his hand, but the whole line of his body.

By the time you’re ready to pop, you’re butting your head into his chest and shaking with need. Mary’s got expert fingers, but you’re still standing up and in a busy bathroom. You mewl every time you reach the crest but _ not quite _—hands now fisted into Mary’s shirt.

Suddenly Mary’s breath is hot on your ear.

“What a little whore you are. So fucking desperate to cum you’ll fuck anywhere. Is my dick not enough? Maybe I should unlock this door and have you open for business. Let any guy who comes in stick his dick in you somewhere, have you plugged up in—”

With a burst of adrenaline, you finally rise over the hill and crash down fast. “Ughn, _ Mare _,” you cry out as you press into him, his finger busy still massaging your clit as you spasm with orgasm.

You’re still buried in Mary’s chest when he finally removes his hand and wipes his fingers on his jeans.

“Hey,” he says, shaking you a bit. “Can’t sleep here.”

You grunt, but pull away from him, albeit reluctantly.

“Christ, they’re gonna think we left.”

“Nah,” you say as you fumble with the industrial no-ply toilet paper roll that only seems to want to come off in bite-sized tears. “Our coats are still there. You’d never leave without your jacket.” You pry the dispenser open so you can maneuver the roll in bigger chunks.

“What’re you doing?”

“I don’t want to be sticky all night.”

Mary licks his lips.

“Nuh-uh, mister.” You surreptitiously begin to clean yourself.

“Whatever. As if you weren’t just trying to suck my tongue out of my mouth. I swear one day you’re gonna suck it right off.” He gives you a vulpine smile. “Save that hoover for my dick.”

“If I sucked your tongue out of your mouth, I’d just use it in tandem when I sucked your cock.”

Mary looks at you aghast as you dispose of the toilet paper in the toilet and flush with the toe of your boot.

“You’ve been spending way too much time around me.”

You just grin at him.

As you leave the stall, Mary glares at anyone who dares to even glance in the direction of the two of you. No one else yells at your presence.

After washing up the best you can without a mirror (and Mary flicking water at you), you tug him to the bar where the two of you order the round you promised to get a blow job ago. While the bartender is setting up the glasses, Mary leans in to whisper,

“Hey, do you want to play?”

You turn to look at him. “Play how?”

He pulls at your clothes. “We could do that thing I talked about.”

You perk up. “You want me to take charge of you?”

Mary’s dilated eyes suddenly focus on yours. “You know I love it when you tell me what to do”

Lightly, you grab his jaw. “In front of all your friends?”

“You and I want the same thing.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah.” He reaches up to thumb at an invisible smear of makeup on your chin. “To show them I can be handled.”

“That’s grossly romantic, Goore.”

“Mebbe,” he says, pulling you in close.

“Ugh,” you grunt at him as you tip your head away.

“Is that a no?”

You roll your head back around to face him.

“No, it’s definitely a ‘yes’.” You rub your thumb across his bottom lip, smearing what’s left of his matte red down his chin. “But not because I’m smushy.” You get right up in his face. “Because I like telling you what to do. From now until when you leave, I own your ass. You don’t do _ anything _ without my permission.”

“Fuck. What you do to me, woman.”

You jab a finger into his chest. “That includes talking, mister. You got that? Nod if you understand?”

Mary nods.

“Mmm,” you grin. “Such a good boy already.”

The bartender sets down the shots on a platter and shoots you both a sideways glance.

“Well,” you gesture at Mary, “those aren’t going to carry themselves.” You turn away, then look back over your shoulder. “Don’t spill a drop.”

Mary quickly, but carefully, takes up the tray. You make your way through the crowd, and you don’t look back at Mary, trusting him to safely transport the drinks.

When you join the table again, everyone seems to zero in on your smeared face. You try to give them a friendly smile.

“Mary’s just behind me with the shots.”

The table erupts with a cheer as Mary appears at your elbow, carefully setting down the platter. 

“For fuck’s sake, Mary,” grunts Elsie. “Half your makeup is gone, and the other half is smeared on her!”

There’s some assorted snickering as Mary just shrugs and you preen.

“Classic Mary,” snorts Dee (metal shirt and black jeans).

“Christ, we were wondering what was taking so long,” says Kara.

“Dominance fuck,” you quip just as Ed’s taking another sip of beer. He sprays it everywhere again—Trevor just managing to jump out of the splash zone—and the whole table bursts out laughing.

“Jesus,” Ed says as he wipes his chin. Trevor hands him a used cocktail napkin. “Mary, tell your girl to quit doing that.

Smirking, Mary just holds his hands out, palm up.

As Ed pats himself dry, the others take up their shot glasses; you notice a wet spot on the tray. Catching Mary’s eyes, you point to the droplet.

“Mary.” Mary looks at you, eyes big at your tone. “Tell me what this is.”

“Someone bumped into me.”

“That’s an excuse. I told you not to spill any. What do we say?”

Mary speaks down into the table. “Um, well—”

“Don’t mumble” You lift his chin up so that he has to meet your eyes. 

“I’m sorry I spilled the drinks.”

You pat his cheek. “It’s ok, Mare Bear. You did your best.”

His friends are staring at you, but they all look away as you turn back to the table. You pick up your own shot glass.

“What are we toasting to?

“To shenanigans both old a new!” says Dee.

Everyone holds up their shot glasses, except Mary. Mary looks plaintively over at you.

You nod, and Mary picks up his shot glass.

“To shenanigans both old a new,” he echoes as he raises the glass.

Everyone clinks and shoots. Trevor and Dee slam their glasses back on the table before chugging their lite beer. Ed’s dribbles out the corner of his mouth, and he lets out a wet _ Fuck _. Elsie downs hers in one go, but Kara takes a couple of gulps—some of it dribbling down her chin like Ed. Elsie laughs at her and calls her a sloppy bitch. You manage to get yours down in two swallows before taking a swig of beer. A professional drinker, Mary downed his with ease, setting the shot glass down without slamming it. He looks at the beer.

“You want a chaser?”

Mary nods.

“All right, come here.”

He shuffles over, and you carefully tip the contents of the beer bottle into his mouth, his eyes never leaving yours. You smile at him. Out of the corner of your eye, you see looks shoot across the table at each other. 

When he’s satisfied, you bring the bottle back down, and he crowds into you. His hand finds the small of your back, and he’s practically purring.

Someone clears their throat. “So, uh, Suey,” says Dee, “you’re an accountant or something?”

“Paralegal,” you correct.

“How does that even happen?” asks Elsie.

“Ah, well. It was the only thing I could think of to do with my pre-law degree.”

Mary looks at you sharply, and—oh oops. You hadn’t quite shared that with him yet.

“Long, boring story.” You wave it away. “What about you? You’re a … graphic artist?”

She beams. “Took a while, but I finally got my degree from SCAD, and now I’m a junior designer at some tech start up.”

The conversation blossoms from there, and it’s actually much easier with his friends after that. You find yourself heavily contributing to the conversation in between giving Mary permission to talk or feeding him a drink—which becomes the elephant in the room that no one seems brave enough to address. Kara & Elsie … well—they're unreadable, but aren’t actively being bitchy, so you consider that a win.

At one point you notice that Mary is squirming excessively.

“What’s the matter,” you ask softly.

“Have to piss,” he whispers in your ear.

“So ask if you can piss, Mary,” you whisper back.

He hesitates, then says quietly, “Can I go to the bathroom?”

You run a finger under his chin. “You may. But no side quests. There and back, got it?”

Mary nods emphatically then practically propels off his stool in his haste.

When you turn back to the table, Kara and Elsie are staring at you. You smile and waggle your empty glass.

“Excuse me,” you say, as you slide off your stool. You’re not 3 steps before Kara and Elsie flank you.

“Ok. What. The. Fuck,” says Kara, but she’s smiling.

You grin wolfishly at her.

“No, I echo that,” says Elsie.

You shrug. “Mary likes a firm hand.”

Elsie snorts. “Clearly.”

“Yeah,” says Kara, “I thought he was going to unhinge his jaw and eat you.”

You smile wider. “He does do that.”

“Fucking _ get it _,” Kara hoots.

“Let’s do another round without those losers,” says Elsie when the 3 of you get to the bar.

“Yeah!” Kara perks at the suggestion. “I wanna hear all the fucking dirt on Mary.”

You give her a Mona Lisa smile. “I don’t kiss and tell.”

She awkwardly wraps an arm around your shoulder. “We’ll get you there, babe.”

Somehow a round of shots turns into two, and by the time you guys get back to the high top, Mary is already there and shooting you daggers.

“Fucking _ finally _,” says Trevor. Then, “Jesus—you didn’t even bring back a round of suds?”

The 3 of you look at each other and burst into giggles.

Ed sighs. “I’ll go get—”

“_ No _,” say Dee and Trevor in unison.

“Fuck, man,” says Dee. “With your track record tonight I wouldn’t trust you with an unopened bottle. I’ll go.” He turns to the group. “So that’s … 7?”

“Oh!” you interject. “Just water for Mary. I doubt Mickey will be thrilled if he shows up sloshed.”

Mary pouts at you, but you just raise an eyebrow at him; he knows he can end this at any time.

“I know.” You pat his arm. “I’m the meanest girl in the world.”

Mary sighs but rests his head atop yours.

After that, Mary really does start downing water, and you switch to lite beer (and you give him blanket permission to make his subsequent frequent bathroom trips because you’re not a _monster_). You vaguely recall when he kisses the top of your head and heads off to Mickey’s bar. It’s a bit fuzzy, but the 3 dudes either leave with Mary or soon after—leaving you, Kara, & Elsie to continue to pound shots that you chase with shitty beer.

“Sssooo … was he like?” slurs Elsie.

“Hmm … Mary?”

“Yeah.”

“Like wha?”

“Jus like. Assa boyfrien.”

“Yeah. We all know he gots that D. Was the tea? Hah! I rhymed.”

You try and sort through your alcohol-addled brain.

“Hessa dumbass,” you slur back.

Kara starts cackling.

“But … but a good bean. Does my dishers. My disheshes. Fuck.”

“Fuck. Keep ‘em,” slurs Kara.

You slam your hand on the table.

“I fhuckhen intend to!”

It devolves from there with the 3 of you swapping weird sex stories then trying to one-up each other. Finally, they put you in a cab—which you scramble to pay for in cash because your card is still at the bar—and you stumble drunkenly up to your apartment. You’re still trying to figure out how your keys work (wait—how _ did _ you get into your building?), when the door opens.

“Jesus fucking christ, Suey. Where the fuck have you been? It’s nearly 4am and your phone’s dead.”

You teeter forward and press your face into Mary’s chest. He smells like beer, the decal on his band tee, and sweaty boy.

“Shmells niss,” you murmur.

“Oh my god—you’re shitfaced,” you hear him say.

“Yer friens are niss.”

“Ok, drunkee. C’mere.”

Mary leads you to the couch and proceeds to make you drink lots of water (**“No. ****_FULL_****.”** “_Shut up and keep drinking.”_ **“Hate you.”** _“I know.”_), and then wrangles you out of your clothes and into bed.

* * *

When you wake up the next morning, everything is awful. You can’t focus on anything without feeling ill, and your stomach insists you ate a whole bag of gummy bears. You let out a sound that you’re sure only dying animals make. As if on cue, Mary bustles in—fresh as a fucking daisy—with a plate of greasy eggs & bacon and a sports drink on your tray.

“Goooood morning, little rosebud.”

You squint at him. “I will murder your face.”

“You’d have to catch me first!” he chirps as he arranges everything and himself on the bed. He helps you sit up, and you sip at the drink with some painkillers as he configures the breakfast onto some toast. You let him maneuver a few bites into your mouth, before you curl back into yourself.

“Ok, Suey. Good job,” he says as he rubs your back.

You burp at him.

“Yeah, ok. Go back to sleep.”

When you wake up again, it’s much later. Somehow you’re sideways across Mary’s lap; he’s reading a book. You squint up at him.

“The fuck,” you say.

Mary collapses the book on his finger and looks down at you.

“You must be feeling better.”

You roll around and bury your face into his abdomen. He pets at your hair.

“Feel like finishing those eggs?”

Bile rises, and you jump up to run into the bathroom. You then proceed to empty the contents of your stomach into the toilet. Gentle hands are there suddenly to hold back your hair.

When you finish and tumble back against the tub, he says, “You could have just said ‘no’ on the eggs.”

You burst into tears, and he pulls at you as you flail ineffectually against him. “No! I’m so gross and stupid.”

“Aww, baby doll, it’s just a hangover. I’ve spent most of my adult life hungover. You’ll live.”

He manages to get the tub going and coaxes you into it. Soon, the two of you are ensconced in a steaming bath.

“Baths are gross,” you grumble, even as you lean into the V of Mary’s support.

“Just shut up and enjoy it like a normal person.”

“Big into baths then?”

Mary hesitates, then says, “My mum. I know it sounds weird, but—with my dad gone? I’d run a bath for her—with these bath bombs?—to get into after she finished a double.”

“That’s really nice, Mare.” You hesitate, then continue, “You don’t really talk about what happened.”

A beat.

You take his pruning hand and kiss his knuckles to reassure him.

“Cancer. She had life insurance and shit, but … it mostly went to medical bills. Couldn’t keep the house.”

You wait, but he doesn’t go on.

“Sucks. I hate it for you.”

“Thanks.”

The two of you sit in the bath until it grows cold, you dozing against his chest while he gently splashes the water with the hand not hanging off the lip of the tub.

“More warm water, or … ?” he asks.

“Can we go back to bed?”

“Yeah,” he says. “I can stay for a bit. Gotta work again tonight, though. So I can be free for New Year’s.”

When you’re nested back in your bed—body leaden and eyelids heavy—you ask, “So, did I pass the test?”

He sighs. “It wasn’t a test.”

“Great. Did I pass the ‘not test’?”

He rolls his eyes.

“Well, half my friends are screaming at me to lock it down, and the other half think you’re batshit and I should run far away.”

You smile at him.

“Sounds about right.”

Mary snuggles in closer. “It’s not them you have to care about anyway.” He kisses the back of your neck.

You groan and weakly kick at him with your feet. “Don’t bring my bile back up, Goore.”

“Fucking shut up, Suey. Whose necklace are you still wearing, anyway?”

And yeah, ok.


	18. The Stars Are Fire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One more romp before NYE

New Year’s Eve Eve, and Mary is back at your place. You kind of feel like you need to eat bags of carrots, but he’s pumped, gesticulating wildly as he explains what an honor it is that the main band contacted  _ him _ and asked  _ him _ to attend their first debut after being signed.

“I get a plus one, Suey.  _ Please _ .”

And even though all you’d like to do is lie on the couch and drink water—oh, would carrot juice be the best answer to both your problems?—you agree to beautify yourself and accompany him to this pre-party of sorts at one of the bigger local venues.

The music is loud, and the guitars are screeching. Lights are flashing, and the room is moist with sweat.

Mary is jumping around in the mosh pit, and every now and then you can see his head emerge. You’re on the outer limit, holding the too-soft plastic cup full of piss beer you guys are sharing—you gave up your moshing days after some dude punched you in the ear, which ripped out your tragus; your piecer had said he’s redo it for free … but one look at your ear and he advised against it because of the scar tissue.

The crowd is being particularly frantic to the current song, so you’re surprised when Mary emerges from the hive—he usually loves a good mosh. His neck and bare arms are glistening with sweat, and his t-shirt is sticking to him; his paint runs in streaks down his face, and his forelock is matted to his forehead.

His grin is feral as he yanks the cup from you and begins to chug. The sides dimple, and some of the liquid sloshes down his neck to join the other moisture there. He throws the now-empty cup in the direction of a trash can, and it disappears amongst the bodies.

“Thanks for sharing, asshole,” you quip.

“Oh. My bad—did you want some?” Mary shakes himself like a dog, and the sweat and beer fly off him, splattering you.

“OH MY FUCKING GOD, MARE!” you screech as you try to distance him with a hand to his chest. His grin only widens as he easily buckles your arm at the elbow, and then he’s on you, smearing his hair and face all over you. 

You’re laughing as you grip his hair to tug his head away from you, but he just starts growling and nipping at your neck.

“I’m the Mary monster … and I’ve come to eat you!” he rumbles in your ear right before you feel his arms go round your waist—and then you’re being spun in circles. You yelp and wrap your arms around his neck, the two of you bumping into other people who cheer and goodnaturedly bump you back.

He finally sets you down with an  _ Oof _ , wincing exaggeratedly as he presses his hand to his back.

You slap his shoulder, the smack landing wetly. “Well, that’s your own fucking fault.”

“Yeah, I know. Worth it, though,” he says grinning before he’s leaning down to kiss you. He tastes like beer and sweat and bitter makeup—but that’s just Mary.

You’re just about to deepen the kiss, when he breaks away with a whoop, shouting,

“Fuck, I love this part!”

He grabs your hand, and you jump along with him and the rest of the audience as the myriad disparate voices join together to form the bridge of the song.

“You can go back in the pit, Mare Bear,” you say into his ear as soon as he stops flailing around like a bunch of wet noodles stuck together. 

But he just turns and pulls you into his sweat-damp body. His hands slide down your body—shoving your skirt out of the way—to grab handfuls of your leggings-covered ass.

“Mmm, I’d rather bump and grind with you.”

To punctuate his statement, he rubs his crotch into you. You grab him by the belt loops to pull him further into you.

“Uh oh—is it that time again? Do I need to milk my boyfriend before he explodes?”

Mary backs you into the rough, concrete wall, his body a firm line against you as his lips brush yours.

“Are you offering?”

You run your hands up under his shirt, fingers sliding through his sweat.

“How can I resist this?”

He nips at your ear.

“Stay here,” he says as he scampers off.

You lose him as he delves further into the crowd, but you busy yourself with yanking your skirt back down and tugging at your fishnet top until the seams line up correctly (you’re wearing it over a black, patent-leather bra, and Mary nearly derailed the whole evening when he first saw you in it). 

He finally reappears, his face open but determined. You don’t have time to question him before he’s grabbing your hand with a firm  _ C’mon _ and yanking toward the back hall with the bathrooms. You think that that’s where he’s taking you, but he doesn’t even pause when you pass by the lines.

Mary takes you practically to the back door—which has been inconspicuously propped open with a small stone so the smokers can come and go as they please—and hisses at you to keep watch.

Before you can ask for what, he has a set of keys out. He fumbles with the lock of a door you have overlooked initially.

“Mare …” you begin, but are cut off when the door clicks open and he yells  _ Ah-ha! _ before yanking you into the room.

He quickly slams the door behind you, which leaves you in darkness. 

“Uh, there should be …”

You hear him fumbling around for something, so you fish your phone out of your bra and turn on the flashlight app.

“Ah! Good call.” He goes for the table lamp your tiny light has illuminated.

“It’s why you keep me around.”

“And the blow jobs.” He clicks it on with the pull chain.

“And the blow jobs,” you echo.

With the light now on, you see that you’re in a closet of an office—a small desk, a wooden office chair, a file cabinet, and a lost & found box. When you turn back to face Mary, he’s beaming at you. He twirls the key ring around his finger as he advances on you.

“I know a guy.” He reaches out a hand to thumb at your cheekbone. “Only the best fuck locations for my baby doll.”

You smack his hand away, but you’re grinning.

“Kiss me,” you say, and then Mary’s lips are on yours, your tongues tangling as you grip his ass and he runs his hands all over you; one finally settles in between your legs to press in pulses at your clit. He works you up so good that you hadn’t noticed you were rocking him into you by the meat of his butt.

He pulls away from you, eyes dark and predatory; he brings the hand that had been touching you up to his nose to smell and then down to his mouth to taste.

“Fuck. I want you.”

“Get on the chair,” you say. Mary blinks at you, but then hurries to obey. “Take your dick out,” you order as you fumble to divest yourself of your leggings. You’re not wearing underwear, and a sticky line of your slick clings to the crotch before landing against your thigh. Mary’s eyes track it, and he lets out another  _ Fuck _ as he gives his hard cock a loose stroke.

When you’re good, he holds his cock out in invitation, and you clamber onto the chair. There’s a horrifying moment with the whole thing tips back—you tumbling into Mary with a small cry as his arms fly out to grab anything—before the two of you realize the chair is built to do that. You both let out a relieved laugh, and Mary bitches at you to stop squashing his dick.

He once again steadies it at the base, and you ease the tip inside you. It goes in easy, but you still slide down slowly, reveling in the stretch. Mary moans and grips the armrests. Using his shoulders for leverage, you slide up and down his cock—slowly at first, just to get your bearings. Mary’s hands fly down to grip at your hips; his eyes are already glazed, and his bottom lip is white from how hard he’s biting it.

After a few recalibrations, you start to bounce on his cock in earnest. Every time you slam down into his lap, you try to angle it so his cockhead punches into your G-spot before mashing your clit into his curls. You’re definitely using him, only bouncing and mashing insofar to chase your orgasm.

Mary just lets you—his hands only slightly trying to move you up and down, and his hips only giving shallow thrusts up into you—his tongue practically lolling out of his mouth watching you take your pleasure from him.

He babbles at you. “Yeah, fuck. C’mon, baby. Ride my cock. That’s right—use me. Use my cock. Fuck—look at you all flushed. Cum on me. Can you cum on me?”

One of your hands flies down to play with your clit, but Mary bats it away.

“Keep fucking riding me,” he says before he licks a thumb and then presses at your nub.

You were worked up before you even sat on his dick, and it’s been a simmer ever since. When the pad of his thumb makes contact with your clit, it’s like it unlocks a dam of pleasure. You stutter to a stop to moan and clench around him.

“Fuck, Suey. Don’t stop,” whines Mary.

The need to cum now is imperative, and you start frantically bouncing in his lap—arms wound round his neck—while he lets the motion of your body help to swipe your throbbing clit.

You know how he gets about you crying out his name, so you’re chanting  _ MaryMaryMary _ as you pant against his cheek. The wood of the chair is hard on your knees, but you keep riding him until you’re  _ oh so _ close. Your mouth drops open as you feel your impending orgasm—and you’re pretty sure you drool all over him—and you gasp out  _ Uh uh uh uh _ as you feel yourself hover. That’s when Mary’s thumb goes to town, and you lock up.

You’ve hardly gotten “Oh fuck” out of your mouth, when Mary’s suctions on to yours. Your orgasm is crashing over you in waves—you clenching in pulses around his hard cock—and you’re riding him in languid rocks while you grunt into his mouth. At some point you broke his kiss and your head lolled back, your movements ceasing as Mary started to thrust up into you as you rode the aftershocks. 

As you feel the calm wash over you, you’re prepared for Mary to plant his feet and fuck up into you. But instead he stands up—forcing you to yelp as you hastily wrap your legs around him. There’s a bit of fumbling, but eventually your back hits the small square of carpet before Mary starts wailing into you.

His lips smear down your cheek and neck and shoulder as he babbles at you. “You fucking tease. I’m going to fuck the shit out of you. Your cunt is here to please me. I’m gonna fill it up so good, I wanna see my jizz dripping down your legs.”

“I want to feel you empty inside me, wanna feel your cock throbbing.”

His hips are working into you double time when he starts to scream his song of release. You wrap your legs tighter around him and say, “I want your hot cum spilling out of me.”

Mary bites down hard at your shoulder—and you stifle a surprised scream—his cries muffled in your skin as he gives one long, hard thrust, followed by a few staccato jolts. Finished, he lifts himself up on his forearms a bit and rests his head on your sternum as he pants, and you run your hands up and down his moist back.

He finally rolls off you and sprawls on his back, one arm draped over his eyes, the other strewn to the side. When you flop onto his chest, he seems surprised, and both arms come around you—which is why he can’t immediately defend himself when your hand shoots out to stroke his softening cock.

“Jesus fucking Christ, Suey,” he says as he stiffens. “ _ Sensitive _ ,” he whines as his one hand reaches down to remove yours from his cock. You laugh at him as he jerks and gasps until he manages to pry your fist free.

He’s still got your wrist in his grip when you wiggle on top of him and press your face to his.

“But would you let me, though?” you say as your lips touch his. “If I wanted to keep going, would you be a good boy and let me tease you?”

The grip on your wrist tightens and the hand you hadn’t realized had clamped onto your thigh digs in.

“Fuck, Suey,” Mary says in an exhaled breath. “I’d let you do almost anything.”

Biting his bottom lip, you pull it out before letting it go to snap back. “That’s what I like to hear.”

You shift to rise, but one of Mary’s hands sinks into your hair and presses your head down. He kisses you hard, but in a slow, sated way. You grind down into him, rubbing into his chest and his clothes.

“Jesus … again?”

“I’m still horny,” you whine, as you mash into him.

“When are you fucking  _ not _ horny?”

“ _ Mary _ …”

“Ok, ok. Christ, you’re greedy. Here—roll over …”

Rolling off him, you lie onto your back; Mary shifts onto his side, his one hand working between your legs to press at your clit.

You grab his wrist to ground yourself. “ _ Yes _ , Mare.”

You let yourself get lost in the ministrations of his index finger; it circles your sensitive clit before flicking over it. Then it dips down to tap at your hole before stroking up and down between both sweet spots—only to repeat the process.

It’s a great process even if Mary’s being matter of fact about it due to circumstance, and you writhe unabashedly—moaning and grunting—as your next orgasm draws closer. Your pussy pulsates in warning, and you curl a little towards Mary, your hands flying to grip into his shirt as you let out an  _ Ugn, Mary _ . His finger speeds up, and you feel your eyes roll back. You let out a wet  _ Ffffff _ right before your walls clench … and then you’re juttering and moaning as you cum to the tempo of Mary tapping at your engorged clit.

Even as you’re slumping and Mary is slowing his motions, he leans down to whisper in your ear.

“You’re so fucking hot. Another?”

And you could—you really could. Mary’s got the fit fingers, and your clit throbs at the suggestion—but you’re very aware that you’re also on the dirty floor in a bustling venue. So you roll into him, mouth half missing his before you suck his tongue down. Mary goes with it, and soon enough you’re once again in his lap. His hands ruck up your top and sneak under your bra to fondle your tits.

“Fuck,” he slurs, “I just wanna get you back to your place and fuck you again.”

You tilt your head back to give him access to your neck.

“Don’t you need to say ‘hi’ to the band or something?”

“Or something,” he mutters into your clavicle. You let him follow the slope of your shoulder, flinching slightly when he makes contact with his bite mark.

“You bit me again,” you grumble, rolling your shoulders.

“Sorry.” His tongue traces the livid red though the fishnet.

“No you’re not.”

“No, I’m not.”

“C’mon,” you say as you squirm on him. “We should go.”

He plants his face into your chest, one hand moving up to rest on your neck.

“Do we have to?”

“Sucks, I know. But we can’t sit here all night with our dicks out.  _ I _ at least need to pee.”

Mary tilts his head to grin up at you, and you quickly cover his mouth with your hand.

“Mare!  _ Do not _ .” 

When he gives your palm a long, slobbery lick, you just make a sound of disgust and wipe it off on his shirt.

The two of you get up and start to put yourselves back in order. You cast about for your leggings only to find Mary trying to stuff them in his pocket, and you notice that there are sticky wet spots on his jeans.

“Mare. You can’t use my pants as cover up.”

“Cover up?” He squints at you and then follows your line of sight down to his crotch. “Oh. This?” He swipes his index finger through a patch, then rubs it against his thumb before seeming to inspect it. His tongue darts out to lick it off his digits. “ _ Mmm _ , maybe I’m saving this as a snack for later.”

“ _ Gross _ , Mary!” You’re 90% sure he did it just to squick you out, but you never know.

He smiles, pleased with himself.

You step toward him, hand outstretched. “Give me my pants!”

He steps away from you. “Nuh-uh.”

“ _ C’mon _ , Mary!” You reach forward with a grabby hand, but he swipes them out of his pocket and holds them above his head. “What the fuck?!” you gripe.

His eyes dart to your bare, exposed thighs. “Maybe I really do wanna see my jizz trickle down your legs.”

You make a mean lemon face at him, and when he throws his head back to laugh, you playfully punch him in the gut. Still laughing, he doubles over with an  _ Uff _ , and you take the opportunity to snatch your leggings from his grasp.

“Come on, fuckhead,” you grumble as you ball up the fabric as much as you can in your hands.

The two for you sneak out of the office—only to run into a smoker sneaking back in through the back door. There’s moment when the 3 over you all stare at each in other in a cursed tableau, until Mary says,

“None of us were ever here.”

Smoker glances down at the pants in your hands, smirks, and gives you both a salute before making an “after you” gesture. You break off to wait in the line for the Ladies’ Room, and Mary honks your ass.

“See you on the floor, baby doll.”

You turn to glare at him, but he’s already walking away.

Between waiting in line; cleaning between your legs with moistened, paper hand towels; and cleaning Mary’s make up off the rest of you after you see yourself in the mirror—a few women smirking, a few judging—it takes you a good 30min to get your situation in order. When you get back to the pit, you don’t see Mary anywhere in sight. He’s not on the outskirts either, or at the bar. Texting him would be useless because even if he hadn’t let his phone go dead, he always keeps it on silent.

The only place else you can think of is that he’s made his way into the Green Room. Even though your wrists bands are the same color as everyone else who is of age, you did notice that the bouncer grabbed yours from a different bunch, so you hope maybe you can get backstage without Mary.

You approach the bored-looking bouncer who’s guarding the hall, ready to explain, but he just asks for your wrist in a monotone. You stick out your arm, which he takes in a professional manner so he can twist and turn it; he has a little black light that eventually illuminates an “x” on your wrist band.

Huh.

“All right,” he says, his eyes already off you and back to scanning the room before he even drops your arm.

You can hear the guffawing down the hall, so you just follow the noise. You poke your head around the corner of the doorframe; the room is filled with mostly skinny boys in various states of ripped shirts (if they’re  _ wearing _ shirts), denim pants, and big hair from teasing or glue. You squint, trying to find Mary like this is a  _ Where’s Waldo? _ picture.

“Can we help you, sweetheart?” says a voice, and a handful of heads turn your way.

“Mine,” says Mary, and you turn toward his voice. He’s straddling what looks like an amp, or maybe a table shaped like an amp, and holding his arms out to you and making grabby hands. There’s a chorus of “hoorays” as you walk over.

“I told you dudes she was smart.”

He pulls you down onto one leg—and you hope he can feel the cold dampness of your crotch through his rips, because honestly you should both suffer that indignity—and wraps both arms around your middle.

“Why am I smart?” you ask as you turn your head to his and hook your arm over his shoulder.

“They didn’t think you’d find me.”

You lean back into him. “Well, it was either here or you left, and I didn’t think you’d be that stupid.”

There’s a chorus of chuckles and a few shouted insults about Mary’s intelligence, which he graciously meets with his middle finger.

“Can you really know what a wild Goore will do? Seems like a lucky guess.” shouts someone.

“Yeah! He’s pretty feral!” shouts another, which is met with some snickering.

Mary just gives it back in different plays of flipping the bird. You wind your fingers into his greasy, sweaty hair so he has to look at you.

“Mary knows his place.”

You hear someone choke on something and someone else say “Jesus”. Mary’s eyes widen, and you swear that if he had a tail, he'd be wagging it. There’s a bit of nervous laughter before the conversation veers off around the two of you. Mary tilts his head so that he can whisper in your ear.

“Wanna get out of here?”

Grinning, you nod.

Mary takes the leave for the both of you amidst playful chiding and some cat calls. He just drapes his arm around your shoulder.

“What can I say? The lady isn’t wrong.” He gives you a leering once over. “I know exactly where my place is.”

As you roll your eyes at him, the whole corner of the room erupts—with empty soda cans and balled up napkins being thrown at you.

“Get the fuck outta here, Goore!”

Laughing, the two of you hightail it out of the room. Mary immediately pushes you against the wall.

“You’re a fucking menace, you know that?” He leans down to nip at your neck. “I have a reputation to maintain.”

You giggle. “I don’t give a shit.”

There’s groan, and the two of you jump apart.

“Fuck’s sake, Goore—get the hell out of here!”

“All right, all right! We’re leaving.”

* * *

It’s a cold walk back to your place, Mary shivering despite his leather jacket as his sweat cools.

“Wanna get a slice?” you ask him.

You can always eat pizza, but a little warm up might be good for your dumbass boyfriend and his allergy to wearing his winter coat.

“Yeah, sure. You’re kinda a bitch when you’re hangry. Fuck,  _ ow _ .”

There's a place on your walk home that makes bank by doing only pizza slices after hours, and if you get there before the 2 o’clock show, there’s even space to sit down. When you and Mary get there, there’s a line to order, but a free table, which Mary hens you to go save while he gets the slices.

He arrives like a conquering hero, smirking as he saunters lazily, plates in hand … until he realizes that the way he’s stacked them has made the cheese of your one plain slice stick to the bottom of his plate.

“Shit, sorry,” he says and he fumbles to scrape it off.

You shake your head in mock disapproval. “You’re fucking useless, you know that?”

“Quiet, you,” he says as he licks the grease from his finger. “I even got you that disgusting trash you like.”

He’s referring to the other slice (Hawaiian) that you’re now blowing on.

“Whatever, salami boy,” you respond as you tilt your chin at his paper plate—now translucent with grease—covered in slices of pepperoni.

He peels off a piece of the meat and flicks it at you; it lands with a  _ splat _ on the top of one tit, and you make a disgruntled noise at him. 

Mary just wiggles his tongue. “Want me to get that for you?”

You only glare at him and put down your slice so that you can peel off the circle, dabbing at the sauce on your top with a napkin. Mary picks up his own to eat—which gives you the opportunity to flick it right back. It hits the lapel of his jacket, and he flails in horror. You smack your hand over your mouth to block your cackle, and shove some napkins over to him.

“ _ Suey _ ,” he whines as he begins to rub at it.

“Wait wait wait—blot, don’t rub!”

Mary just whines again as he begins to dab violently at it. You grab a few napkins and scamper over to the end of the counter where an Asian woman is switching out trays. When she looks up at you, you give her an imploring look.

“Can I get some dish soap?” you ask as you wave the napkins.

She blinks at you and says, “One moment,” before she’s yelling to someone in the back. “Hēi, Zhāng Wēi, nǐ néng zài zhǐ to shàng fàng xiē xǐ wǎn jīng ma?”

A moment later, a man comes out from the back holding a soapy paper towel. The woman points at you, and the exchange is made.

“Thanks!” you chirp as you spin on your heel back to Mary. He’s pouting up at you. You  _ tsk _ as you half straddle his one leg. “Don’t be a baby, it’s fine.” You blot gently at the small slick of grease, the soap resting in white crests atop the black of his leather as you press.

It takes a few passes with drying in between, but it finally comes out ok.

“There you go, Mare. All better.” You plant a wet kiss on the affected area.

When you move to climb off him, Mary grabs your wrist.

“What about my kiss?”

You scoff at him. “You aren’t the injured party.”

“Not the—it’s my fucking jacket!”

You spin out of his grasp so you can reclaim your seat and eat your pizza. 

“And who fired the first shot?”

He exaggerates his pout. “Whatever.”

You listen to him as he waxes poetic about the bands the two of you saw tonight and interject when you can about the attractiveness of the members just get him in a lather. Even while doing most of the talking, Mary eats all 3 of his slices in the time it takes you to finish your two, and then he eats the crusts you leave.

You quirk your eyebrow. “Hungry much?”

He leans back and pats his food baby.

“If I’m gonna fuck your greedy ass all night, I need some fuel.”

“Ok, bot-thario.”

* * *

As you walk home, Mary grabs your hand and stuffs it into his pocket, interlocking your finger together like you might fly away. He looks up at the sky and huffs out a puff of breath that mists in the air in front of him.

“You ever wish you could see all the stars? Like, some out of the city shit?”

“You mean without the light noise?”

“Yeah. My middle school always took the 7th graders to the Poconos at the end of the year. One night they took us out to a field where we chomped on those lifesavers, you know? The mint ones? They spark in the dark.”

“Wint-o-green?”

He looks over at you. “Yeah. They also had us lay down in the grass and talked about the constellations. I think we were more impressed with being allowed to be up so late … but I do remember thinking that the stars were so bright and so … prolific.”

There’s a moment before you respond.

“We took a yearly camping trip most years. More glamping than anything, but I liked to go exploring and climb up the rocks.” You grin at him. “Always covered in scrapes and dirt.”

“The  _ scandal _ !”

“It kind of was, though. But we also did our fair share of star gazing, especially if there was a meteor shower.”

Mary bumps you. “Aww, Suey. Did you wish upon a star?” He leans down to your ear. “What did ya wish for?”

You scoff and lean away from him. “Everyone knows you can’t tell or it won’t come true, Goore.”

“Tell meee,” he hisses as he gets closer.

“Stop!” you laugh as you pull your hand free to keep him at bay.

He wraps his arms around you even as you try to squirm free. “Tell me your seeecreets!”

“It won’t come true!” you squeal.

He nips at your ear before giving the shell a lick.

“Well, I’ll tell you one of mine because I’m not fucking stingy.”

Mary slips one hand to rest against your cheek.

“I’ve always kinda wanted to do that again.” He pulls back to look at you. “I mean, maybe not that  _ exactly _ … but see the stars like that again, yeah?” He searches your face.

“If you say something about my eyes right now, I will spit in your face.”

Mary rolls his eyes and pushes you away from him with a palm to your face and begins to walk on.

“You’re a pain in my ass.”

You catch up with him and shove a hand into his back pocket before giving it a squeeze. “Only sometimes.” You leer up at him.

He looks down at you through slitted eyes.

“Don’t distract me with sex.”

You rub yourself into his side, your other hand traveling down to his crotch.

“You love being distracted with sex.”

Mary suddenly grabs you, and you find yourself pressed against the brick wall of a building. He presses himself into you, a hand winding into your hair to tip your head up so his face can meet yours.

“Yeah, ok. Maybe.”

His other hand fumbles to unhook the first few button toggles on your coat.

"You’ve brought this on yourself, little girl.”

Mary scrambles to get his arms under your thighs, and you wrap your legs around his slight waist and your arms around his corded neck so that he doesn’t drop you. His head comes down to worry at your neck as his pelvis squirms to find a good angle to press in between your legs. He gets a few good ruts into you before you feel his arms begin to tremble.

You’re about to suggest to him that he should put you down when someone across the street whistles. Mary growls, but lets you slide down him. When the two of you turn toward the callout, you see two alternative boys giving the thumbs up. Mary salutes. You lick your middle finger.

They whoop back, and you watch Mary watch them until they’re small on the horizon. When he turns back to you, his gaze is full of intent. He reaches into his pants to adjust himself, then he grabs your wrist.

“Let’s go.”

The causal saunter back to your apartment has turned into a forced march with Mary at the helm. His legs are longer, so you stumble after him until he finally lets go of you—but you still have to do double time to keep up.

When you reach your building, Mary is impatient—his body draped on you and his mouth sucking at your neck as you struggle to unlock the building door. Once inside, you push him away with a laugh before you break out into a run. You have the advantage of a surprise head start, but Mary’s in better shape, and he catches you before you even make it off the second floor landing. 

“You’re in so much fucking trouble,” he snarls before he tosses you over his shoulder.

“OH MY GOD, MARE! PUT ME THE FUCK DOWN!” 

He just slaps your ass through your coat a few times. You beat ineffectually at his back—cursing—as he totters up the next two flights, but Mary doesn’t put you down.

When he gets to your door, he’s panting. You squirm, but he’s not moved.

“Stop wiggling unless you want me to drop your ass. Gimme your keys.”

Because you’re an asshole, you drop the keys on the floor instead of into his hand. There’s a long pause during which you try to hold in your laughter even as the jiggle of your body gives you away.

“Well played—but don’t think this gets you out of the trouble you’re in.”

He sets you down so that you’re boxed in between him and the door while he squats to grab the keys. You reach down to grab his hair, but he bats your arm out of the way before standing up again.

“Nuh-uh. None of that.”

Mary makes sure to lean into you as he works at getting your door open, so when it does, you go stumbling backwards with an ungainly exclamation. Then you slip on all your mail—envelopes scattering everywhere—and your arms pinwheel for balance. Mary’s arm shoots out to grab at the collar of your coat, steadying you.

“That’s your own fucking fault,” he rumbles as he slams the door behind him. Then he yanks you back into him, pressing his lips hard to yours before giving them a good nibble. You go to lean into him, but makes a sing-song “nuh-uh” sound before pushing you into the wall.

He pins you again with his body. 

“Fuck. I want you here, like this. Take your shorts off.”

You love it when Mary’s like this—rabid, savage, all Id—just as much as when he’s whining at your feet, and your heart beats in between your legs in anticipation. Once again, you contort to shimmy out of your leggings. When you’ve got one leg free, Mary’s hands are at you—undoing the rest of your coat toggles and shoving your skirt up around your stomach. His dick is already out, and he yanks up one of your thighs to hip level, his other hand sliding back to grip into the meat of your ass.

“Guide me in,” he half whispers, and you reach down blindly, grasping for his dick. You get the tip into you, and Mary grunts—resting his head against the wall—pushing in the rest of the way. “Fuck. You’re tight like this.” 

You moan, your hands scrabbling at the back of his jacket as you clench around him. The grip on your thigh becomes painful, and he begins to thrust into you shallowly.

“So fucking wet too. You wet for my dick, huh? Dripping at the thought of what I was going to do to you?”

“Your fucking cock, Mary. Are you gonna punish me with it? For being such a tease?”

“You’re goddamned right I am.” He lets go of you, his dick slipping out of your pussy as he leans back. “Turn around … and take that coat off.”

You grapple with your coat, trying to shake it off your arms. When you feel Mary grab ahold, you hiss, “Rip my fucking coat and I’ll rip  _ you _ .”

“Shut up,” he grumbles, but he also gently eases you out of the garment before tossing haphazardly to the side. “Over,” he rasps as he bends you—one hand on your head, the other pressing into your belly—so that your palms are flat against the wall. He kicks your legs together before he’s sliding into you again.

Hands gripping your hips, grunting with each movement, Mary pounds into you. Hard. When he finally punches into your G-stop you moan low and long, buckling forward a bit. Mary hisses at you to keep position, but after that he manages to hit your sweet spot on most thrusts.

“Oh fuck, Mare— _ harder _ ,” you slur as your head rolls onto one of your arms.

There’s a slight pause, and then he’s rolling his hips before giving you sharp jolts.

“You want it harder, or you want my finger on your clit?”

You make a long  _ Mmm _ noise. “One, then the other.”

“Fucking picky,” he grumbles, but then he’s punching into you again. And again.

And again.

You moan and grunt, pressing back into him where you can as he pounds into you. When your fingernails start scrabbling at the wall, one of Mary’s hands detaches from your hips and slides down between your legs; it splays, and one of his fingers starts rubbing at your neglected clit.

This time you really do buckle forward with pleased  _ Uhn _ , and you feel the heat of Mary’s hard cock as it slips out of you. A breathy  _ Shit _ escapes his mouth as his finger leaves you so that he can reposition you and slide his cock back in.

“Oh!” you gasp. “Fuck me good, Mare!”

“Christ, I’m trying. Stay still.”

You acquiesce as best you can, letting his finger slip slide on your clit as his cock punches into you. You’re gasping and moaning, rolling your head from side to side, and at some point you started banging your fist on the wall. The closer you get to your climax, the more your legs begin to tremble.

The two of you babble nonsense at each other.

“Oh, I want it—I  _ want it _ ! I wanna cum. I  _ wanna cum _ . Make me cum, Mare. Fuck me, fuck me,  _ fuck me  _ …”

“I’m gonna give it to you so good, baby doll. My cock’s gonna make you cum so hard. Are you gonna do it? Are you gonna cum on my cock?”

You press back into Mary and then rock into his finger, trying to climb over the hill of arousal to your climax. He’s beginning to lose his steadiness, his speed and consistency becoming erratic.

“Fuck, Suey—I’m gonna … I’m gonna …”

The thought of Mary blowing his load and moaning his pleasure into you brings you to the crest of your hill, and you yell out  _ Fuckfuckfuck _ —banging your fist into the wall—as you feel yourself tighten, then spasm in pulses. You almost slide down the wall, but suddenly Mary’s hand is gripping the front of your neck and angling you up as he starts slamming frenetically into you, panting hard.

He lets out a loud grunt as he cums, thrusting hard into you and pressing you into the wall; he squashes you further as he fucks out his aftershocks and attempts to latch onto the nape of your neck before deciding to just suck the ever-loving fuck out of your skin there.

Your face and arms are pressed against the cool of the wall, and Mary’s suction is turning into little kisses as his arms wrap around your middle.

“ _ Mmm _ ,” he purrs as he nuzzles into your skin.

You can already feel Mary’s cock softening, so you wiggle around to face him; he’s already there and waiting, his mouth finding yours to worm his tongue into. His hands run up to wind into your hair as he rubs against you.

“Fuck. What did I ever do to deserve you,” he murmurs against your lips.

“Probably the blow jobs,” you mutter back at him, and he laughs.

Mary’s hand travels back between your legs, two fingers tapping at then sliding in and out of your hole.

“Mare,” you grunt, pulling away from his kisses.

“What?” he asks as his mouth only starts to travel down your neck.

“Mare, what’re you doing?”

“Hmm,” he hums. “Just feeling my jizz drip out of you. S’nice.”

You make a sound of indignation and push him away from you. Even stumbling back he’s got a shit-eating grin on his face.

“Don’t be  _ gross _ , Mare.”

He raises his hands up in supplication.

* * *

After you’ve made Mary join you in a quick shower—laughingly fending off further lascivious attacks—the two of get ready for bed. 

Mary actually crawls into bed way before you do, so you wrap yourself around his half-asleep comma when you slip under the covers.

“Mare?”

He grunts.

“Do you really want to see the stars again?”

There’s a pause—and you think he must have drifted off—but then one of his hands rests atop yours.

“Yeah,” he croaks.

“Ok, baby,” you say, kissing his neck.

He tenses for a second, then relaxes.

“Ok,” he says as he grips your hand tighter.


	19. There's Magic in the Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A new year is breaking, and it's full of possibilities.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Plot heavy!
> 
> (Reminder: not Repugnant accurate.)

It’s a 15min walk from the nearest subway stop in a part of the city that hosts low-income and broke college folk, and you’re beginning to wonder if your heeled boots were the best choice—but the shiny patent of them so nicely offset your cheap pink and black tulle skirt and fuzzy black crop sweater with inlaid tinsel that you’d decided on form over function. You’d almost changed your top when Mary had knelt and given your tummy a raspberry where it hung over the waistband a little, but his cute little pout had placated you a little after you’d threatened to do just that.

“You want a piggyback?”

“Nah, I’m all right, Mare. We’re almost there, right?”

“Yeah.” 

Using his chin, he indicates a house down the block with a light on in every window and that’s lit up with string lights. It’s a little run down, but not falling apart. The neighborhood is full of three-story homes that are either co-ops or rented out by various floor configurations. 

You’d tried to follow his explanation on who he knew and how, but the most you’d retained was that of the 6 people who rented the entire house, Mary knew 2 of them intimately. (“ _ Yeah, they’ve had it every year that they’re lived there. I’m pretty sure a good third of the crowd is party crashers, but the more the merrier, right? _ ”)

The closer you get, the louder the din from the house becomes—it sounds like there are 4 different playlists fighting for dominance, and the crowd ASMR is strong. There is a gang of smokers spilling from the front porch, down the cement steps, and clumped into murders in the small yard.

Ed and Dee are leaning against the railing on the steps, shivering in their best band tees as they take drags of their cigarettes.

“Hey, man!” says Mary as he leans forward and engages them both in a sloppy approximation of a cool, secret handshake.

“Hey, Goore!”

“Long time no see, dude.”

You nod at them, and they nod back.

“Where’s the rest of the gang?” asks Ed as he strains to see behind you in the dark.

Apparently Mary usually pregamed with his bandmates and then they headed over en masse later in the night. Horrified, you’d tried to convince him to uphold the tradition, but he’d insisted he could break off one year (“ _ I’m not gonna toss you to the wolves, Suey. I see those assholes all the time. _ ”).

Mary blows out a breath, and it hangs in the air like the puffs of smoke.

“Still pregaming. They’ll be by later. I wanted to give Suey the grand tour.”

Mary makes a sweeping motion, then wraps that arm around you. Ed and Dee’s eyes flick back to you.

“He’s a fucking liar; he was afraid one of you would steal me away.”

Ed coughs out the drag he was taking, and Dee snorts.

“You’re killing my street cred, woman.”

“Whatever, dude,” says Dee with a smirk, and Mary glowers at him. “You wanna bum one?” Dee holds out his pack as if in contrition.

Mary’s hand twitches, but he shakes his head.

“Nah, dude. Not unless it’s that chronic shit.”

“Yeah, they got those somewhere.”

“Cool. Cool cool cool.”

A few merrymakers exit the house—laughing and screaming—and they push by the lot of you as they presumably journey on toward another party.

“All right, dudes. We’re gonna go make the rounds, get some cold ones. See you on the other side!”

“Sounds good!”

“Do it.”

Mary ushers you inside, and—despite the open door—the warmth of the house hits you, making you feel suddenly uncomfortable in your winter coat. Like the outside, there’s a general mass of bodies that are sectioned off (in the hall; on the stairs; spilling out of the kitchen; lounging in the living areas) like music notes in a run of measures. You spot a worn-looking chair that’s piled high with coats, and you go to toss yours on, but Mary grabs your arm.

“Geez, Suey. You wanna get your coat jizzed on?”

“I—what?”

“C’mere, let’s not add our stuff to the pile that’s gonna make someone a nice sex bed later.”

He yanks your coat out of your hands and opens a door that leads to the hall closet. A beach ball tumbles out and is joyfully absconded with by a trio of party goers walking by, and Mary catches one golf club in his hand as it falls out from the top shelf and another under his arm. Unfortunately, he doesn’t catch the one that hits his booted foot, but you managed to stand on tiptoe enough to prevent the entire bag from depositing its contents on Mary’s head.

“Jesus fucking Christ.”

Between the two of you, you manage to get the clubs back in order from whence they fell.

You can see that there’s other junk up there and in the back—whether it lives there permanently or was just shoved in there pre-party, you guess you’ll never know—but there’s an entire row of coats on a rod, which seems to be the closet’s main purpose.

“Here.” Mary rifles through the mess until he finds a free hanger. It takes some adjusting, but he finally gets his leather jacket and your coat onto the same hanger and manages to squeeze it back into the mass.

“OK. Let’s go find Shonda.”

“Not Murray?”

“Apparently he’s elsewhere tonight.” He shrugs.

There’s a sudden squeal of voices, and when you turn, you see Kara and Elsie hurrying toward you. Elsie is in a sequined dress so garish it must be fashionable and Kara sports a sparkly red sweater over black jeggings that she’s wrapped fairy lights around.

“So you’re not dead!” says Kara

“Uh … no?”

“Christ, I would have called you, but I’ve spent the last few days with my head in a toilet,” laughs Elsie.

“Yeah, thanks for that guys,” says Mary. “What I really wanted to do at the crack of dawn was take care of this lush.”

“Pffft,” snorts Elsie. “You’re one to talk, Goore. As if your head doesn’t live in the toilet.

“Yeah, total karma, Mary. Remember that time you got your stomach pumped?”

“Jesus, Mare,” you say at him with a bemused smile. He scowls.

“Look. Honey whiskey goes down easy.”

Elsie and Kara cackle before grabbing up your hands.

“C’mon, let’s get you a drink, hon,” says Kara.

“What about me?” pouts Mary.

Elsie sniffs over her shoulder at him as she pulls you down the hall.

“Sorry, Goore. Girls only. Go set shit on fire or something.”

“That was  _ once _ !” you hear Mary call down the hall after you.

“Wait—what did he set on fire?”

Elsie looks at you and mimics locking her mouth and throwing away a key.

The kitchen is full of bodies. In one corner, there’s a game of beer pong set up, and in the other, people are digging beer containers out of a giant cooler. On the counter are a few bowls half-filled with various snacks—the other half of which seem to be spilled over the counter and crushed into the linoleum floor. There’s a dark-skinned woman in a black & white plaid rockabilly dress and red cardigan who’s struggling to empty a bag of ice into a second cooler.

“Here—let me help, Shonda,” says Kara as Elsie leads you to the full cooler.

Shonda looks up. “Yeah, could you? Dunno where my asshole roommates are.”

By the time the two of them have the contents of the bag in the cooler—the cubes sliding in with a rough  _ whoosh _ and plinking softly over the beers in the bottom—you and Elsie have fresh beers that she’s poured into solo cups.

“Thanks, Kar.” Shonda wipes her hands on the bottom of her dress, makes a face, then fumbles for a dingy kitchen towel hanging over the fridge door handle.

“Shonda,” says Elsie, catching the woman’s attention. She pushes you forward a bit. “ _ This _ is Mary’s new squeeze.”

“Oh, um, hi.” You stick out your hand.

“No shit.” Shonda gives you a once over before giving your hand one firm shake. She nods a few times. “Yeah, ok. I see it.” She pats you on the arm. “Good luck with that.” She turns to Elsie. “Is that little shit here? We need to have words.”

Elsie jerks her thumb over her shoulder. “We left him down the hall.”

“He can run but he can’t hide,” Shonda says as she stomps away in impressively high red heels.

“Do I need to go defend his honor?”

Kara snorts.

“Nah,” says Elsie, waving your question away. “She’ll probably just make him do the heavy lifting the other stooges wheedled their ways out of.”

“He is stronger than those skinny arms make him look,” you muse.

Kara leans in. “Oh?”

You grin at her.

The two of them lead you into what must be a dinning room that seems to be the official set up for the snacks and libations. A bar with liquor and mixers have been arranged in the built-in, and there’s a folding table in the corner with an array of chips, snack foods, and a pile of wilted-looking pizza boxes. There’s a center table—which looks more permanent—that some sort of drinking game is occurring over.

You make a beeline for the pizza.

“I think I need a good base.”

As you juggle the pizza slices on a plate on the top of your cup, Kara and Elsie talk rapid fire across you, sometimes asking you questions (about you, about Mary, about you and Mary), other times going into long-winded stories about people you’ve never met, but are hilarious nonetheless.

“Fuck. I’m not drunk enough for this party yet,” Kara laments.

“Well, yeah,” says Elsie. “I thought we’d get our game on.” She pokes you in the belly, and you suck your stomach in away from her touch. “You done ‘getting your base’ yet?”

“Yeah, I’m good.” You dump the paper plate and crusts into a trash bag slumped in the corner.

About the time Elsie is squeezing you three into the game at the table, Mary wanders in. His face brightens when he sees you, and he makes his way over to you, wrapping his arms around you from behind.

“There you are, baby doll.”

“I thought I told you ‘girls only,’ Goore,” says Elsie.

He jabs a finger at her. “I gave you more than enough time to monopolize my girlfriend, Ford.”

“Just keep your dick in check.”

“I do what I want.”

For the next half hour, you engage in a rousing game of flip cup, which you have always been  _ terrible _ at, but Mary seems to dominate. By the end, Kara and Elsie are hitting their buzz—playfully shoving themselves and others—and you’re beginning to feel more at ease in this sea of unfamiliar people.

Ed and Trevor wander in and motion to Mary, but seem to address the whole crowd.

“Yo!” says Ed. “Wanna go upstairs?” He stimulates smoking a joint at Mary.

“Yeah, man!” Mary turns to you. “You wanna join?”

You shake your head. “Can’t. I get tested.”

“ _ Laaaame _ ,” says Kara, and you jump because you didn’t realize how close she’d gotten.

“You sure it’s ok?” Mary scrunches his face.

“Yeah, Mare. Go! Be free!”

“Don’t worry,  _ Mare _ ,” says Elsie coyly as she drapes an arm around you. “We’ll take good care of Suey.”

Mary looks horrified enough that you think he might change his mind, but then Ed and Trevor are pulling him away. Elsie looks down at you.

“What did you do to that boy?”

You squint up at her. “What do you mean?”

Kara insinuates her way in between you and hands you both disposable shot cups.

“She means you’ve got him pussy whipped.”

You scrunch your face further. “ _ Mary _ ? He’s like a stray cat that shows up sometimes for food.”

“Is the ‘food’ ‘sex’?” Kara jumps her eyebrows at you.

Laughingly, you shove at her. “ _ Maybe _ .”

Elsie throws her hands up. “PUSSY. WHIPPED.” She downs her shot.

You and Kara follow suit.

“Ok, but seriously,” you half cough as you wipe a dribble off your chin. “Mary does what he wants. I don’t tell him what to do.”

“Aww, hon—we know,” says Kara. “Elsie is just giving you a hard time.”

Elsie shrugs. “I’m a Class A Bitch.”

“She is,” agrees Kara. She turns her cup upside down; a few droplets drip out. “Hey, bitch—go get us more suds!”

“Demanding,” grips Elsie, but she turns to make her way into the kitchen.

You and Kara wander over to the food table to graze, the howls from the newest drinking game dolcet background noise.

“Hey, I know Elsie tends to make people butthurt, but she just has no filter.”

“Oh. No, it’s fine.” You shrug. “People tend to think I’m an elitist snob, so I try to be, um, more open minded.”

Kara grins at you. “‘Splains why you’re dating Mary.”

You throw a withered carrot stick at her. “Don’t fucking call me out like that.”

Kara laughs as she tries to block the attack. The conversation seems to stall after that, so you try and dredge up a question.

“So you guys know Mary from high school or something? Mary was … vague.”

“Just Elsie. That’s why she’s a little protective. He’s seen some shit.”

“Yeah, I know,” you say quietly. You turn to look at Kara. “Did they ever …?”

Kara waves her hand at you dismissively, swaying slightly. “Shit, we’ve all fucked around with each other at some point or other.”

Your eyes bug out. “ _ You _ and Mary?”

She snorts, and leans toward you at a dangerous angle. “Well  _ I _ never slept with Mary. But I’ve been with Elsie and Dee, and Mary with her and Trevor, and Trevor and Dee had a thing with Ed.” She screws up her face. “I think I got that right. I can never keep it straight, honestly.” Kara shakes her head out; then her expression changes and she bites her lip. “Shit. Maybe I shouldn’t’ve told you all that.”

You pop a Jax in your mouth. “Mums the word, sister”

As she’s giving you a sloppy, grateful smile, Elsie finally appears—tottering carefully—with three solo cups precariously balanced between her hands and tits.

“Shit—come get your drinks.”

You and Kara scramble to relieve Elsie of her haul without dropping the prizes as the drinking game breaks with an  _ Awwwwwww _ .

“You guys wanna with another round?” Elsie throws her thumb over her shoulder as she sips from her cup.

“Fuck yeah, you know it!” exclaims Kara as she throws her hands up, beer spilling over the side.

After doing OK in a few rounds of Finger Spoof (you’re feeling the buzz nicely), you look around and realize you haven’t seen Mary in a while. You leave Kara and Elsie to their own devices and head into the kitchen. Grabbing your own solo cup in your teeth—ignoring it as some of its contents sloshes over the side and down your chin—you fish for a lite beer floating in the lukewarm cooler water for Mary.

If you can locate him.

He’s not in any of the rooms downstairs, nor is he outside with smoker’s club. You make your way up to the second floor, hoping he’ll be easy to find up there. There’s a door that’s locked and another where there’s a group hanging out on the bed and each other as Kpop loudly plays.

You find Mary in an open bedroom full of haze. He’s softly strumming an acoustic guitar—his fingers fumbling slightly on the unfamiliar strings as he tunes his way up the frets. He’s propped up in a corner, legs crossed under him, as the others in the room pass a joint around.

Picking your way carefully through the crowd, you make your way over to Mary. People shift and sway out of the way and scoot over when you smush yourself in next to him.

“Hey.”

“Hey.” You lean your head onto his shoulder, and Mary passes off the guitar to someone else. “Where’re Ed, Edd, and Eddy?”

He snorts.

“Went in search of snackies.”

He looks down at the beers resting in the small slick of condensation on the floor and licks his lips.

“One of those for me?”

“Yeah,” you say as you hand him the room-temperature bottle, which he takes up and chugs half of in one go. Watching his adam’s apple bobbing, you lean in to lick his neck. Mary jerks, then coughs, half spraying the beer out his mouth and nose. A few people squeal in surprise as you cackle, and Mary glares at you, wiping at his mouth and nose with the sleeve of his shirt that he’s curled over his hand.

“Fuck. You’re a pain in my ass.”

He drapes his arm around your shoulder, the bottle in his hand resting on your arm. The person who has the guitar now is strumming up a familiar song, and soon everyone is singing along (screaming or shrieking off key in some cases). Under the guise of getting his drink close to his mouth, Mary subtly maneuvers you into his lap—his other hand sneaking up under your shirt hem to rest on the curve of your belly with the tips of his fingers brushing just under one cup of your bra. You’re too loose from the drinking game to really care, so you lean back into his chest, warbling along to the tune as well.

You’re swaying, drink in hand, as you screech along to another song, when suddenly you become very aware of Mary’s erection pressing into your ass.

You turn your head. “Seriously?”

He rumbles into your ear. “Whaddya want? You’re squirming on my lap.”

Giggling, you purposely grind back on him, and he grabs your hips.

“Fuck, baby doll—keep that up and I’m gonna make a mess.”

You lean your head back on his shoulder as you circle your hips.

“You love making a mess, Mare Bear.”

He leans down to bite at your neck.

“I love making a mess on  _ you _ . Not in my pants.”

“So stop me.”

Mary’s arm comes around your waist, effectively pulling you flush against him.

“FucK.”

More people wander in as the songs turn from nostalgic familiars to those of the drinking variety, and they raise solo cups and bottles in joyful celebration.

Everyone is sloppy; some sway to the rhythm of the songs, others drunkenly half mosh, spilling their drinks everywhere. You grinding your ass back into Mary—and him twitching up into you—is hardly a blip on anybody’s radar. His head thunks down onto the slope of your shoulder, his hips wanting to rut faster than subtlety or your own movements allow.

People are stomping, clapping, and spraying beer on each other as they half mutter words to drinking songs they realize they only half know.

Mary is a mess, trembling as he presses into you and mewling softly with each pass. Conversely, you’re having a grand ole time: rocking your hips as you sway and sing along to whatever the person in possession of the guitar is currently playing. Ignoring your own wetness and the growing throb in between your legs, you try to give him the pressure he needs.

You can feel his chest heaving into your back and the sweat from his forehead on your skin when it’s clear he’s getting close. His limbs shake as his arms squeeze you tighter, his movements almost stilling to nothing—and then he blows out a held breath like a drumbeat, his crotch pressing into you in pulses as he bites down into the juncture of your neck. Gasping, you spill a good amount of your drink as you jerk forward—Mary still rutting shallowly into you.

A few people cheer at your party foul—which hopefully takes any attention off Mary, who is clearly no longer hiding the fact that he’s cumming hard in his pants. He finally slumps behind you, his arms loosening and sprawling open.

“Shit,” he says.

You lean back. “Mmm … good?” you purr.

His hands sneak back under your top to sink into your flesh, and he leans up enough to whisper into your ear.

“You’re a fucking menace.”

“You could’ve stopped me.”

He growls. “You know what you touching my dick does to me.”

“Was I, though? Touching your dick?”

Mary rubs his face into your neck as his hands squeeze your chub.

“Close enough.”

“Get a room, Goore!” screams someone before some of the group toss a couple of empty solos your way.

Mary looks up and grins.

“Maybe I fucking will.” He starts to stand up, bringing you with him—probably to hide the wet patch on his jeans. “See you losers later.”

There’s a general chorus of hoots and whistles, but mostly the crowd goes back to their drinking songs.

“Are we really getting a room?” you ask—arousal curling—as Mary directs you around the second floor, hands on your hips to keep you in front of him.

“A bathroom, yeah.”

There’s a slight wait—one Mary fills with his roving hands and lips—before the woman ahead of you stumbles out, wiping her wet hands ineffectually on her party dress.

Mary ushers you in, locking the door behind you. The two of you look down to inspect the damage. It’s actually not terrible. You can hardly tell at all on his jeans, and Mary undoes them so he can half shuck them down. His boxer briefs are a completely different story; they’re visibly soaked through at the top, and when he peels away the waistband, he reveals a sticky, slimy mess coating his stomach and flaccid cock.

“Shit. This may be a lost cause,” he says as he inspects the inside of the fabric.

“TP?”

“Yeah, unless you wanna lick it off …” Mary looks up at you with a smirk. “Which would be kinda hot, actually.”

“Sorry,” you say as you roll toilet paper around your hand, “but I like my jizz how I like my coffee: hot and fresh from the source.”

He runs a finger through the mess and then wiggles it at you. “It’s still  _ kinda _ warm!”

You wrap your mouth around it because it’s the last thing he expects you to do.

“Uh …”

He’s momentarily rendered speechless as he watches you suck his finger clean and then smack your lips as if appraising.

“Nah. None of that reheated crap either.”

He blinks down at you. “Should I be horrified that I’m rubbing off on you?”

You give him a smile with your tongue half sticking out as you rub the wadded up toilet paper across his belly.

“I’m pretty sure I was just rubbing  _ you _ off, Mare.”

Mary’s hands come up and sink into your hair. “Shut up.” He pulls you into a deep kiss. “Fuck. Love it when you tease me,” he says as he pulls away.

“I know.” You beam up at him and continue trying to clean him up.

He looks down at himself. “Fuck it.” He goes to toe off his boots, realizes that he’s wearing his “dress boots”—the less-scuffed ones that lace up to his knees—and snarls in frustration.

When he goes for the medicine cabinet, you step out of the way and toss the slimed wad of paper into the toilet. Making an  _ Ah-ha! _ noise, Mary turns to you and snaps a pair of hair scissors triumphantly.

“Do the honors, will ya?”

“Wait—you want me to … cut your boxers off?”

“I’m sure as fuck not taking these boots off or spending the rest of the night marinating in my own jizz.”

You snort at him. “Whatever you want, Mare Bear.” You shuffle forward and hop up onto the sink. It only teeters a little.

“Hey! Hurry the fuck up in there!” comes a male voice through the door accompanied by banging.

“Fuck off, I’m taking a dump!” barks Mary.

“ _ Dude _ ,” says the voice, but the banging stops.

Mary shifts forward into the V of your spread legs as he hands you the scissors. He keeps his face close to yours. “Try not to cut off anything important,” he breathes at you.

“Of course—you’re no good to me clipped.”

His eyes meet yours, then travel down to his crotch. Carefully (willing your eyes to focus), you start from the top down, snipping the fabric—bunching it up with each shear—until you reach the end of the leg up to the crotch, Mary only flinching slightly (_“Careful with the goods, woman!”_ **“Fucking hold ****_still_****!”**). Once each side is cut, Mary and you work together to pull each half free.

As you ball up the front half to toss into the trash basket, Mary uses the back half to wipe up the lingering stickiness coating his cock and stomach.

“Better?” you ask when he’s finished and zipping his jeans back up, the other half of his boxers joining its twin in the trash.

He wiggles a bit. “Eh, it’ll do.” You expect him to back off, but instead he crowds closer. “What about you, baby doll? Maybe I should check on you.”

Before you have a chance to respond, Mary is shoving up the layers of your skirt and pressing his hand into your damp tights. You gasp at the sensation.

“Hmm,” he rumbles, “seems like you could use some clean up yourself.”

And then he’s maneuvering his head in between your spread legs, trying to position your knees over his shoulders. You let out an  _ Oh _ , as your hands fly down to brace yourself on the edges of the sink; Mary growls in frustration as he tries to  **first** pull down your tights,  **then** to rip them apart to no avail. Before you can stop him, he’s picked up the shears and has snipped a slit in your crotch.

“Mary!” you yelp, but he just dives back down, tongue wiggling through the rip in the fabric to trace your seam before delving into your folds to flick at your clit. At the burst of sweetness, you moan, and your head thunks back into the mirror.

Head swimming, you lose yourself in the feel of his tongue as it swirls around your nub and then presses into it a few times before he’s sucking it in between his plush lips. He repeats this process, sometimes running his tongue down to your entrance and then back up, and at others holding the tip directly on your clit until you start squirming in frustration … only to then flick repeatedly back and forth.

A finger enters you, and you cry out, “Oh  _ fuck _ ,” as you tighten around it. Mary starts to slowly ease it in and out of you as his tongue continues its massage of your hardening clit. You’re really squirming now, rocking into his mouth and down onto his finger—making sure you light up every sweet spot. You feel like a guitar string wound too tight, ready to snap, and your pussy pulsates in warning.

Mary sets his tongue speed to 11, and you feel the tidal wave of your orgasm start rushing toward you. You let out a squeak as your one hand sinks into Mary’s hair right before your climax breaks, and you start bucking into his mouth. Like a good boy, he manages to follow the lead of your hips until your pussy stops popping and your body relaxes—your butt slipping down into the bowl of the sink.

After catching your breath, you look down to find Mary’s twinkling eyes staring up at you from beneath the layers of your skirt. You pet down the side of his head with an  _ Mmm _ , and his eyes close as he leans into the touch.

“I think you only made me stickier, Mare.”

His head tilts to rest on your one leg.

“Not my fault you get wet as fuck. There’s only so much I can lap up at once.”

You shift up into a sitting position as Mary wipes his face—and the lower part of his makeup—onto your tights.

“Shit. Are the tights a lost cause too?”

“Stand up?”

You hop off the sink, and Mary inspects your backside. He gives it a slap before saying, “Nah, I think you’re good. Just a little damp.”

You crinkle your nose. “Well, I feel slimy. Turn around so I can take care of business.”

Mary peers into the mirror to even out his smudgy face before slurping some tap water from the faucet as you get your situation into a tolerable state.

When the two of you exit the bathroom—Mary’s arm draped back around your shoulders—there are two guys lounging on the bottom of the stairs leading up to the 3rd floor. They look up at the sound of the bathroom door opening, and one scrunches his face at you.

“Dude. I thought you were taking a shit.”

He holds up a blackened Yankee candle.

Mary shrugs at him. “We don’t kink shame here.”

The guy’s companion bursts out laughing even as you elbow Mary in the ribs. He just laughs as he says, “C’mon let’s get some suds.”

The two of you make your way back down to the kitchen where  <strike>Shonda</strike> The Beer Færie has replenished the coolers again. Mary shotguns a can—foam spritzing everywhere—as you search for the elusive opener. Unable to locate it, you try—and fail—to pop the top off on the counter.

“Gimme,” says Mary—belching—grabbing for your bottle. After fishing for another bottle in the ice, he aligns the caps and pops them both with the other.

“My hero,” you say in an affected tone as you bat your curled eyelashes at him.

“That’s fucking right.” He makes an arm in an attempt to bulge his bicep.

You test it with your hand. “Nah. Too small, throw it back.”

Pouting at you, he says, “You’re the worst, and we’re in a fight.”

You shrug as you take a swig of beer. “Eh. I got what I wanted.”

Mary makes a grab for the bottle, but you twist out of his reach and bolt out of the kitchen. He doesn’t catch you before you seek sanctuary in the living room. All the furniture has been pushed against walls, the rug rolled and resting in a corner, and more bodies than there should be are packed into the center as a party mix thumps from the speakers.

You wiggle your way into the crowd and run into Kara and Elsie, who shout  _ Hooray! _ and pull you into their bump and grind. The 3 of you raise your drinks into the air to avoid spilling on each other as you rock and sway, alternating who gets sandwiched.

Suddenly, Mary is at your elbow.

“Hey! Gimme back my girlfriend!”

“Sorry, Goore,” says Elsie. “Finders keepers.”

For a minute he looks genuinely put out, but then he just smirks. “Whatever, I’ll just enjoy the view.”

“ _ Pig _ ,” Kara spits.

Mary shrugs and starts to do a god-awful wiggle that you think is supposed to be dancing. He has the rhythm—and his ass jiggle is pretty nice—but that’s about all he’s got going for him in the moves department.

The mix must be trying to appeal to all types, but ends up being a spastic mix with no eye for continuity. Nineties Girl Pop transitions into Metal, which transitions into Country, then into Alternative, then to 80′s Power Ballad, then R&B, then Punk.

After screaming along to “Toxic”, Elsie leans in. “ _ Fuck _ , I’m about to pass out. I need to get some air.”

“Want me to come with you?” asks Kara.

“Up to you, dear.”

They look at you.

“I should throw Mary a bone.”

Kara smirks at you. “Kinky.”

Elsie rolls her eyes at her friend. “C’mon you bitch ass.”

Seeing his opportunity, Mary gives a head nod as he seamlessly switches places with them. He pulls your back into him as his hands come round to rest on your hips.

“Good thing you emptied my dick earlier, or we’d have a problem,” he murmurs into your ear.

“Don’t be gross.”

“K.”

You and Mary grind or shimmy or jump depending on what the song calls for, your beer long drunk by now. At some point someone opens a window, and the chill, near-January air curls in—its icy but brisk tendrils working their way through the crowd. You shiver a little as the sweat on your skin tingles and cools at its touch, and Mary pulls you in tighter.

[ Meatloaf ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2t11CwlG444) comes on—🎶  _ On a hot summer night, would you offer your throat to the wolf with the red roses? _ 🎶—and Mary snuffles his face into the crook of your neck, you tilting your head to the side to give him access.

> 🎶  _ Will he offer me his teeth? _ 🎶

He worries at you with his teeth.

> 🎶  _ Will he offer me his hunger? _ 🎶

His blunt teeth sink into you, and you let out a pleased rumble.

> 🎶  _ And will he starve without me? _ 🎶

“Yes,” he whispers into your ear right along with Jim Steinman.

You roll your eyes even though Mary can’t see you do it, but you let him spin you out—jostling the other revelers—and back into him (stumbling) as the drum beat drops. He tries to twirl you, but the crowd has packed back in around you, and all you accomplish is tripping over his boots.

🎶  _ …I was dying just to ask for a taste _ 🎶 he mouths at you.

“You’re fucking ridiculous,” you say.

He leans in and nips at your lips, but you turn your head to whisper in his ear.

“I gave you a taste earlier, mister.”

“ _ Mmm _ , but I’m greedy.”

You let him mouth at your neck as the two of you sway back and forth, Mary’s hands dipping lower and lower.

A sudden commotion is like a record scratch, and everyone turns to the front hall. Mary’s bandmates come into sight—caterwauling with 12 packs of shitty beer held aloft—encouraging the cheers of the other partygoers.

One spots Mary and points his finger at him.

“Goore! Goore! Goore!”

The other band members pick up the chant.

“Goore! Goore! Goore!”

The crowd takes up what has become a war cry:

“Goore! GOORE! G O O R E !”

Mary points back, then puts his hand up in supplication at you as he backs his way out of the room.

“You’re a goddamned tease!” you cry after him.

He shrugs before spinning on his heel to be assimilated in the group, the chant turning into whoops and hollers as they make their way into the kitchen.

Mary had warned you that the band usually did an unplugged set, and you surmise they must need to set up.

Without Mary or the girls, the dance room has lost its appeal, so you meander around the first floor. The drinking games have devolved into “Never Have I Ever,” and while the pizza is gone, a homemade-looking mac and cheese dish in a tinfoil baking pan has appeared.

You pile some onto a paper plate (whose structural integrity you seriously question) and are content to watch the proceedings until a girl in the circles demands you squeeze in with a slurred “None of this wallflower shit!”. They shove a solo cup into your hand, which is then promptly filled with whiskey from a Jack bottle.

For the next hour or so, the guests on either side of you—Lila and Marty—become the best friends you never knew you had while you all hoot and catcall each other to the escalating scenarios. The bromance comes to a swift end, sadly, when Dee appears in the doorframe, sees you, and points dramatically.

“It is time for the festivities!” he yells in deep baritone.

“I’m being summoned!” you yell, and there’s a chorus of boos as you wobbly make your way over.

“Come, yon neophyte, and join us at the gathering spot.”

“Lay on, McDee!”

Dee leads you out into the backyard, which is done up with myriad bulb lights. Mary winks at you as you pass him on the porch—picking your way around the hodgepodge of instruments—before you join Ed, Trevor, Kara, and Elsie at one side of a well-used iron fire pit on the grass. The girls are passing a flask back and forth as they snuggle you in between them.

It should be fucking freezing out, but with the alcohol, the body heat, and the fire, you actually feel quite cozy. There’s a buzz of voices as the band arranges and tunes the borrowed instruments. You think you can see human shapes on back decks in other lots, but it’s hard to tell through the glare of the lights.

The band members take their places, there’s a countdown, and then Mary and the guys jumpstart into their first crowd favorite. While there are some general cheers at favored sections, the intimacy of the party and the lack of mics or speakers make it a quieter affair than their venue shows. You and the girls sway back and forth in your triplet, and even the guys are fist pumping and mouthing along. They play two more of their own songs before doing a few classic 80′s punk covers that really get everyone hyped.

It’s not perfect—none of them are sober, they’re unaccustomed to the instruments, and the cold air isn’t helping dexterity. At one point the lead singer forgets the words and just  _ la la las _ his way through the verse, which in turn sends some of the other members into a musical stutter. Not everyone is invested in the whole set—some people went back inside after the first few tunes, and others see the band as just background to their conversations. Those who are fully invested have gravitated closer to the porch—but your group of Mary’s bffls are content to hang out by the fire pit where a few people have started roasting marshmallows.

After an … interesting … mashup of “[Rudie Can’t Fail](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uEK9oK02D1M)” and “[Classics of Love](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nT_RHizMsak)” that sounds like a physical representation of a key smash, the band closes ranks, and there’s some whispered conversation and emphatic gesturing.

“Ok!” says Donnie, the lead singer. “We’re gonna switch things up. Usually on backing vocals, Goore is going to take lead for our  **last song** .” There are some  _ boos _ that probably have more to do with the set ending than Mary singing, but also some whistles that are probably  _ for _ Mary. “Yeah, yeah, I know. But it’s a party for us too!”

“Huh,” says Elsie.

“What?” you say into her armpit.

“Mary hates lead.”

You know. He’s mentioned ad nauseam.

Mary steps forward and takes position up front. When he brushes his forelock out of the way, he looks up briefly and catches eyes with you. You give him thumbs up. A grin breaks out on his face, and he winks at you. Slowly, he strums chords until he finds what he’s looking for, and you can tell he’s humming along quietly—it’s a familiar sight now to you, but you wonder how much of this crowd has  seen Mary chart out a song.

Finding the key he’s looking for, Mary clears his throat. His voice isn’t rich in timbre, but he rasps out with feeling, and his pitch is near perfect.

> 🎶 _ So I hear you been wondering  
_ _ I've been wondering too  
_ _ Just what this crazy world has in store for me and you _ 🎶

You’re surprised at his choice, and you feel your face burn. Mary’s eyes flick up to you—glinting boyishly—and you stick your tongue out at him. He slows the song way down as he sings, changing the frenetic energy of  [ the original ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VlkLdDJ5wls) into a soulful ballad to which he can growl along.

> 🎶  _ You scratching to find a way  
_ _ A tortured soul back from the grave  
_ _ O Baby Doll back to kill them all  
_ _ Now please won’t you stay _ 🎶

Mary pauses, looking full up at you before taking in a deep breath. A few heads turn to see who he’s looking at. You scrunch your face at him to convey your mortification, but he just shakes his head at you—he’s not going to stop.

> 🎶  _ Baby Doll whoa  
_ _ Baby Doll  
_ _ I need you  
_ _ I love you  
_ _ Baby Doll whoa  
_ _ Baby Doll  
_ _ O Please come back to m _ e 🎶

You suddenly feel naked under the interested gazes of the curious onlookers as Mary continues on. He’s mostly singing  _ at _ the guitar, but his few pointed glances at you make it clear who he’s singing  _ to _ .

> 🎶  _ The tortures of your soul  
_ _ The rotting flesh pain never dulls  
_ _ O Baby Doll you will kill them all  
_ _ Now please come to me _ 🎶

You try to sink back into Elsie and Kara, who just push you forward again.

“ _ Dude _ ,” Elsie breaths at you.

“This is  _ awesome _ ,” says Kara.

“I’m going to fucking kill him,” you mutter through your plastered on smile.

Some of the amassed crowd—which suddenly seems to have multiplied—start clapping to the slowed beat, and it causes a ripple of well-timed claps as well as those who can’t keep a rhythm.

Strumming in deliberate strokes, Mary looks up to hold your eyes once more.

> 🎶  _ I see you standing there  
_ _ In the shadows and in the rain  
_ _ A lifeless beauty  
_ _ Nothing could ever ease you of all your pain  
_ _ But Baby Doll the revenge you seek  
_ _ I dunno  
_ _ It will never be sweet  
_ _ But you'll never give it up  
_ _ Now come to me  
_ _ Come on _ 🎶

You shake your head as Mary continues to repeat the chorus into a soft fade. There’s a moment of silence after he’s finished, and he points out at you.

“Give it up for my very own baby doll!”

Applause breaks out and you give him double Fs.

Mary sets down the guitar carefully as Donnie steps forward again.

“All right! That’s it, motherfuckers! We’re about an hour away from the New Year, so grab a drink and sign up for our mailing list if you haven’t already!”

The crowd is whooping and whistling. A few people crowd up on the porch, as do Trevor, Ed, & Dee. Mary shakes hands, shoulder bumps, and backslaps his bandmates  and some of the crowd, but his eyes are on you.

“I’d fuck him,” says Kara with a smirk.

Elsie groans. “Please don’t fuck in front of us. At least find a broom closet.”

You turn to her and give her a wolfish smile. “Who says we haven’t already christened it?”

Elsie buries her face in her hands as Kara tipsily attempts to fist bump you and ends up smushing your tit.

“Whoops! My bad!”

“Bitch, we’re cutting you off.”

“No, you’re not. Who would you do shots with?”

“Suey’s more than capable.”

You make a “who me?” face.

“Mebbe, but I think her mouth is spoken for.”

You’re about to respond, but arms suddenly encircle you, a mouth presses to your neck, and you squawk.

“If you’re not Mary Goore, you better watch your nuts!”

“I’m me, and I have to watch my nuts, anyway.”

You squirm around so that you’re facing him.

“Forget your  _ nuts _ , I’m going to fucking kill  _ you _ .”

“Aaaand on that note!” says Elsie, and she and Kara pat Mary’s arm before heading inside.

He looks down at you with hooded eyes.

“Whatever. You’re pleased. You fucking love that song.”

“Oh? Am I?”

“Yeah.”

“And what makes you say that?”

“I still have my nuts.”

You narrow your eyes at him, then point your finger in his face.

“You’re on thin ice, mister.”

“ _ Mmm _ , I can think of a few ways you can take it out of my ass later.”

Your stomach flips, and you press into him, grabbing his jaw.

“Damn right I will.”

Mary bites his lip as you wiggle your hand in between the two of you to palm at his crotch. He closes his eyes and sways a little 

and that’s when you step away from him.

“C’mon—my cup is empty. I need a refresh.”

Mary’s eyes pop open, and he whines while making an exaggerated puppy-dog face.

You snap your fingers at him. “ _ That’s _ for earlier.”

There are still enough people mingling outside that it takes a while for the two of you to actually make it back inside—some are Mary’s friendly acquaintances he wants to say hi to and others are fans he can’t help but chat up.

“We’re going to be on Instagram again, aren’t we?” you say when you finally start your trek inside, his arm lazily resting around your shoulders.

His head turns to face you, and he gives you an impish smile.

“Tell me if I give a shit.”

You quirk your eyebrow at him. “You might give a shit later.”

His smile turns vulpine. “Promise?”

Your hand slips into his back pocket and squeezes.

It’s actually pretty close to the ball drop by this point, so you and Mary grab up two of the bargain plastic champagne glasses you find lined up in rows on the kitchen counter. When the cheap champagne starts being passed around like you’re all in a pirate shanty, you hold out the glasses (Mary’s already lost the base to his) for a fill.

There’s no way everyone is going to fit in the living room; the majority of the attendees are spilling out into the hall, up the stairwell, and out onto the porch, with you and Mary squished in by the stairs—but the volume for  _ Rocking New Year’s Eve _ is turned up so loud the speakers are fuzzing, and a few people are streaming it on the phones.

“T-Minus one minute!” someone screams, and a cheer goes up.

“Oh shit!” you exclaim and start digging around in your bra.

“What?” asks Mary as his eyes flick down to your tits.

You retrieve two silver dollars, warmed by your skin, and press one into Mary’s free hand.

“What’s this?” He holds the coin up at eye level.

“Silver dollar. If you hold onto one as the year turns over, it’s supposed to bring good fortune.”

He looks at you skeptically as he turns it this way and that. “Does it work?”

You shrug. “Can’t hurt. My grandma swore by it.”

“THIRTY SECONDS!”

“Where d’you even get these?”

You grin.

“Amazon.”

Shouts come from the living room: “10 … 9 … 8 …”

Mary turns to face you, and the two of you take up the chant.

“7 … 6 … 5…”

He crowds a little closer, the fist holding the coin draped over your shoulder with yours resting on his hip.

“4 … 3 … 2 …”

You don’t get out the “1” because Mary smashes his mouth to yours—just a hard press of lips to lips—then he’s pulling away to press his glass to your mouth. As you try to sip out of it, you fumble your own glass to his mouth. The two of you only succeed in spilling half the contents all over each other before conceding defeat.

There’s some shrieking a moment before everyone in the hall gets sprayed with foamy champagne. Since there really isn’t any room to escape, Mary and you try your best to duck and cover, laughing as the droplets come raining down. The beach ball from earlier comes out of nowhere, and you punch it back into the air, the plastic of it slick from the champagne shower.

Everyone is still screaming, separated friends are trying to find each other amidst the revelry, and some dude on the stairs is shouting Tennyson over an off-key rendition of “Auld Lang Syne”.

> “ _ Ring out, wild bells, to the wild sky _ !”  
🎶  _ Should old acquaintance be forgot, _ 🎶

Elsie and Kara are jumping up and down from where they are in the living room, pointing, and starting to make their way to you.

> “ _ The flying cloud, the frosty light _ !”  
🎶  _ and never brought to mind? _ 🎶

The beach ball beans you in the face, and Mary takes it and lobs it onto the porch where it hits the back of Donnie’s head, causing the rest of them to cackle and holler back.

> “ _ The year is dying in the night _ !”  
🎶  _ Should old acquaintance be forgot, _ 🎶

Like magic, Mary procures a half-full bottle of bubbly from the train of people maneuvering in the hall and takes a big swig before passing it to you. You chug the rest, coughing as the lukewarm bubbles fizz up your nose.

> “ _ Ring out, wild bells, and let him die _ !”  
🎶  _ and auld lang syne? _ 🎶

Laughing, Mary wipes at your face with his sleeve, and you realize he’s still got the silver dollar clutched tight in his hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Songs referenced in this chapter](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/7gbdQiLn4aiUGMMmmgFYZF?si=GcqC5X46TtOD4T6uEX3iEw)


	20. Good Boy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mary has some dues to pay. Suey is happy to collect

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Porn. Porn porn porn.
> 
> (updated tags)

“Do you know what you did wrong?”

Mary trembles.

“I-I embarrassed you.”

_ Smack _

“Ah!”

“Try again.”

“I-I didn’t … ask your permission?”

“Is that a question or a statement?”

“A statement.”

“Hmm.”

You rub your hand over his mottled-red butt cheek. Then you bring the heart-shaped wooden spoon back down.

_ Smack _

“ _ Ah _ !”

“You embarrassed me  _ because _ you didn’t ask permission.”

After that little New Year’s Eve production, you’d promised to take it out of his ass.

You make good on your promises.

Mary whines as you  _ tsk _ .

“You didn’t get it right. You know what that means.”

“N-no— _ please _ .”

_ Smack smack _

“Fffffuck!”

“Don’t beg. You’re not getting out of it that easy.”

Mary still stands—despite his knees buckling slightly—facing the corner, with his hands against the wall, ass stuck out.

“Turn around.”

He does so, and you’re delighted to see that his dick is mostly hard; it’s flushed and juts out slightly as it leans toward his thigh.

“Please,” he breathes, his eyes wide and shiny.

You give a light tap to the head of his dick with the spoon, and he gasps.

“No. I already told you: stop begging.”

You get down on your knees, and you look up to him.

“If you touch me in any way, I’ll make this 10x worse.”

He bites his lip.

You suck his tip into your mouth, swirling your tongue around it, as his hips give a slight twitch. You lightly run your lips over his cockhead, bobbing slightly as Mary moans. You focus only on stimulating the head of his dick—suckling it and tracing it with your tongue—smiling when you feel it pulse. Knowing he wants your hand on him, you leave it on his thigh instead, to steady yourself. You give him short, shallow bobs, then twist your mouth around his tip.

Mary’s bottom lip is white under his teeth, and his hands are clenched into tight fists, but you keep up your ministrations until he’s shaking and holding back minute thrusts; that’s when you pop off and wobble to your feet.

Mary whimpers. You point your finger down at the floor.

“Stay.”

He’s in the corner of the living area, so he has a full view of your tiny apartment. Tonight’s one of those nights the radiator is going full blast, so you’ve stripped down to a mismatched pair of fancy underwear. The black panties with lips on them keep rolling down under your belly, and the underwire of the red, lacey bra doesn’t want to lay flat on your ribs—but Mary doesn’t seem to have noticed, his eyes black with desire. He’s naked except for his holey, black socks—because the floor is cold and you’re not a monster.

You flop down on the couch—affecting a yawn—and unmute the TV. There’s a  _ Law & Order _ marathon on, which you watch even though you can practically recite the lines to each and every one. The important part is that you keep an eye on Mary’s dick—best not to watch something that might engage your interest too much.

At some point—mid episode—you notice his erection flag, and you make a production of stretching and getting back off the couch. Mary’s wide eyes track you as you make your way the 3 steps back over to him.

“Ah ah ah,” you purr as you fondle his balls. Mary hisses and jolts. “Can’t have you losing that pretty boner, now can we.”

You sink back to your knees, nuzzle his semi, then suck it down whole. Mary groans, and his entire body jerks. While you have your nose pressed into his curls, you wiggle your tongue out so you can lick his balls while you’re down there.

“Oh shit!” he gasps.

As you bob a little, you reach your hand up to roll his balls—now slick with your spit—and Mary grunts. You pull off his cock to suck in a breath and move your hand up so you can jack him nice and fast. He makes a wounded noise, and that’s before you suck him down again, halfway. You curl your tongue a bit so it hits his sweet spot on every stroke, and soon enough he’s rock hard and pulsing again.

You pull off, and he whines. “ _ Suey, please _ .”

_ Tsking _ , you take up the spoon to give another healthy tap to his cockhead, and he lets out an  _ Ah! _

“I’m sorry, who?”

“ _ M-ma’am _ !”

You tap him again, and he gasps.

“And that’s for begging. You do it again and I’ll make sure your ass is hot enough to fry an egg. Do you understand?”

“Y-yes, ma’am!”

By the time you make yourself comfortable back on the couch, the famous  _ Law & Order _ twist is just being revealed.

By the time the next episode is starting over the previous credits, it’s time to get Mary fully hard again. As you walk toward him, he bites his lip hard. You give him a big grin.

When you take him in your mouth again, he lets out a sigh that’s half relief, half frustration. You give him a blow job that’s a sloppy massage with your lips and lots of spit. Once he’s good and wet, you pull out your tits and rest them on the top of your bra. Getting yourself into position, you smush them together so you can jack Mary that way.

His eyes are locked on where his dick is disappearing into your cleavage, and he’s letting out little mewls each time the tip gets swallowed back up. When his eyes roll up and he starts panting, you let go of your breasts, and Mary’s cock—red, flushed, and spurting precum—bounces free. He looks back down at you and whines pitifully, but you just grin up at him. You pat his flank and head back over to the couch.

Instead of unmuting  _ Law & Order _ , you put on a show: teasing at your nipples and slipping your hand into your panties. You’re already wet from the excitement of sucking Mary off, and your clit throbs happily as you circle it. Mary makes a noise like he’s going to say something, then sucks in his lips. Wanting more pressure, you moan and roll over onto your stomach, pressing into your clit over and over.

When you get close, you start babbling, hoping to rile Mary up.

“Oh fuck, Mary. Fucking love your hard cock. Can’t wait to feel it in me again, filling me up. Wanna feel you slapping into me and filling me up with your hot cum. Fucking want to feel it dripping down my thighs.  _ Ughn _ .”

You cum hard, panting your way through it as you rock your hips into your hand. When you lazily turn your head to look over at Mary, you find him glaring at you—cock hard and purple.

“Mmm, we can’t have grumpy face, now can we? How ‘bout a little treat?”

You press your slick fingers to his lips, and he closes his eyes as he parts his lips. You ease your digits in, and Mary’s tongue swirls around them. As you withdraw them, Mary gives them a good suck, his eyes boring into yours.

You thumb at his plump lips. “Don’t say I never gave you anything.” His brow furrows, but you just chuckle. “Now!” you clap. “Where were we?”

This time when you get on your knees, Mary tries to lean away from you.

“ _ Hey _ ,” you snap as you reach around to slap his ass. Mary whines. “None of that now.” You rub your face on one thigh and your hand on the other one. “Aww, I know it’s hard. But can you be a good boy for me? Do you think you can take a bit more?”

Mary’s face is contorted in indecision: his eyebrows scrunch together and his bottom lip is once again white with strain. Knees popping, you move up his body to grab at his jaw.

“Hey.” You meet his eyes. “You say the word and we stop.” You brush your thumb over his abused lip. “It’s ok if you need to, Mare. You know I won’t be mad or disappointed, right?”

You keep your eyes trained on his, waiting. Something like steel bleeds into them, and he tilts his chin up in challenge.

“More.”

A wicked grin breaks out on your face.

“ _ Good boy. _ ”

* * *

By the time you’re done with Mary for the night, your knees are red and your jaw is aching. Mary isn’t faring much better—his hard cock is angry-red and leaking precum, he’s trembling, and his eyes are moist.

“Now, I haven’t changed my mind. You have—” you check the clock on the microwave, “—6hrs until you’re allowed to cum.” You run your finger down his face. “But you get to choose how. You are to remain nude—no cheating with your inseam—but whether you want a hot bath or an ice pack right now is your decision.”

Mary does a great approximation of Wesley on the rack in the Pit of Despair.

You stroke his face and kiss him.

“You can do it, buddy. You’ve done so well. I’m so proud of you.”

He sniffles. “Ice pack, please.”

“All right, come here. Let’s get you comfy on the bed ok?”

“K.”

Stiffly, he follows you to your bedroom, where you tuck the blankets around him. You retrieve the ice wrap from the freezer—which you wrap it in a towel because  _ you’re not a monster _ —and a glass of his Pedialyte. Mary’s still lying stiffly and looking constipated, but he takes the pack from you gratefully, positioning it on his crotch under the blankets. He hisses at first, but then seems to relax. Then he takes the glass from you, gulping it down greedily until it’s gone.

“You good, Mare?” you ask as you take the glass away. “Can I get you anything else?”

His eyes narrow at you. “Yeah, a fucking orgasm,” he snaps.

You climb on the bed and straddle him, hand at his throat.

“Don’t be a brat. I can and will get you back out of this bed to make good on heating up your ass.”

He turns his face to the side. “Sorry,” he mumbles.

You run your hand up his face and into his hair.

“You did really well tonight.” Leaning down, you kiss the hinge of his jaw. Mary grunts.

“Fuck. Don’t do that. I’m already like Stonehenge here.”

“Oops,” you giggle.

Crawling into bed, you wrap yourself around him to give him a solid presence. He sighs and wraps an arm around you.

“Want me to set an alarm, Mare Bear?”

“Fuck. I’ll be counting down the hours.”

You set your alarm for 6am anyway, and—despite his words—Mary dozes off with his usual alacrity. You’re the one who removes the wilted ice pack from his crotch later.

When the alarm does go off, you groan and Mary grumbles.

“Shut that fucking thing off, will ya?”

You do, but you roll back to whisper in his ear. “So, you don’t want to get off?”

Mary’s eyes snap open; then he rolls over onto you.

“ _ Oof _ .”

“Is now my only option?”

“Well, I have to work—so if not now then much later. Or, I mean—your hand is always an option.”

He nuzzles into your neck.

“Fuck it. I’ll take my chances for a lunchtime romp.”

“Sure, Mare.”

Mary eases off you, but pulls you back into him, sighing.

You listen to his breathing for a bit.

“Hey, Mare?” He grunts. “Was that ok? Last night?”

He huffs then presses his lips to your pulse point.

“It was fucking awful.” You tense—an apology on your lips—but he’s not done. “And also fucking hot as hell. And shit—that thing with your lips?”

“Which one?”

You can feel his chest rumble. “When you wrapped your lips over your teeth. Why don’t you do that all the time?”

“It cuts up my mouth.”

“Oh.”

You rub his arm. “Special occasions, ok?”

You’re not shocked when you feel Mary start to grind into you and his erection press into your ass.

“Mare.”

“Fuck, ok—I lied. Can I have it now? Please?”

You spread your thighs to let Mary’s cock fall in between them; his hips don’t miss a beat.

“How do you want it, cowboy?”

His movements stop. “Don’t say shit that’ll make me lose my boner.”

You giggle.

He resumes his shallow thrusting between your legs, his one hand pressed against your belly and his breath hot on your ear.

“Mare?”

“Hmm?”

“You want it like this?”

“I’m thinking.”

You let him rub in between your legs as his hand traces the curves of your belly and gropes lightly at your tits.

“I want your mouth,” he says finally as his hips stutter. “Wanna fuck it ‘til your throat’s raw. Wanna get the last laugh and give you my jizz for breakfast.”

Your clit gives a tiny pulse of interest.

“Yeehaw,” you say.

Mary stops. “Ok, that’s fucking it, little girl.”

There’s a flurry of limbs, some jostling on the bed, and the next thing you know, Mary has you pulled to the edge of the bed, your head hanging off it upside down. He’s all frantic movements and snarls as he gets the positioning just right, but all you do is smile and open your mouth.

He’s not gentle when he finally shoves his dick in your mouth, and he starts pumping into you immediately, grunting and panting. He really  _ is _ focused on using your mouth hard, and a few times you need to give him a light shove when he gets too aggressive. Your eyes are watering, and snot is dripping the wrong way down your face as Mary chases his release with singular focus.

It’s not long before he’s shaking, his thrusts slowing, as his cock gets rock hard. You try to swallow around him as much as you can before letting out a hum. With a high-pitched moan, Mary snaps his hips into you hard, and you cough in reflex just before the salt of his release fills your mouth. With each subsequent twitch, Mary sounds more like you when you cum hard than his usual guttural growls.

Your mouth is still filled with his cum, his dick still pulsing wildly, when he pulls out and continues to shoot his load all over your face. All you can do is keep your eyes screwed shut and try not to cough his cum back on him. Still moaning, Mary starts rubbing his cockhead all over your face and through the mess he’s created. He’s apparently having a religious experience, so you refrain from laughing at how much of a mess you are. You think there might be cum in your ear canal; it’s definitely up your nose.

Finally, you hear him collapse to the floor and feel when he leans into the side of the bed.

“Jesus fuck,” he pants. “My fucking nuts.”

Blindly you reach out a hand, patting his shoulder when you connect with it.

“If this were blood, I’d be worried you’d need a transfusion, Mare.”

You feel his fingers swipe through the jizz on your cheek.

“I’m not even fucking sorry. Christ, you look hot like this. Shit, if I thought I could get it up again, I might try to get the rest of you.”

“I doubt you could coat me before the first part started drying.”

“Hmm. Maybe I’ll save all my jizz for a week in a jar. Dump it on you after I’m done.”

“Make sure you reheat it first. Cold jizz is the worst.”

“ _ Pffft _ . This is why I—why you’re my fucking favorite.”

“Little help?”

“You got a hose?”

“Just fucking hand me the cum towel so I can at least see my way to the bathroom, asshole.”

You feel him lean away; then there’s some rustling.

“It’s uh—kinda crusty. You still want it?”

“How crusty? Like on a scale of totally stiff to random patches.”

“Calico.”

“What?”

“Fuck, I dunno. It’s your metaphor.”

“Best judgement, Mare.”

There’s a pause, some more rustling, then the feel of tissues lightly swiping over your eyes. Carefully you open your eyes, your eyelashes still sticking together slightly. Mary’s face is peering over you.

“S’good?”

“S’all right.” You give him the thumbs up.

As you make your way to your feet, Mary gives you a slap on the ass.

“And don’t forget my breakfast, woman!”

You glare down at him.

“This isn’t a restaurant.”

He gives you big, puppy dog eyes.

“But, but, but— _ aftercare _ .”

“I’m sorry, who’s the one that sounds like Patty and Selma?”

He sticks out his bottom lip. You narrow your eyes at him.

“Only because you’re cute.”

He wiggles his index fingers into his dimples.

You’re through the door when you peek back around the door frame.

“Of course, you’re going to have to wonder how much of your cum I added to it.”

You’re already closing the bathroom door behind you when you hear, “Wait—Suey. Fuck.”

Once you reemerge (clean and flushed), you’re surprised—but pleased—to see Mary at the cafe table with plated eggs on toast and mugs of steaming coffee. He looks up at you as you exit the bathroom—his eyes round and his gaze following your progress toward him. You slip onto his lap, running one hand through his hair. Mary’s eyes close and you press a kiss to his temple.

“ _ Mmm _ . Good boy.”


	21. Working Out the Kinks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Now that these two dumbasses are comfortable with each other, it's time for some seXXXy communication.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Porn _and_ plot!
> 
> Ok, guys. Gonna work on some other Ghost stuff after this chapter.

Falling asleep on the couch is one of those things that you only do  _ sometimes _ . Waking up with a crick in your neck and sore limbs is usually enough of a deterrent—but it happens. The first time he’d found you in that state, Mary had tried to carry you to bed and dropped you; the next time, you’d woken up smashed into the back cushions with a solid boy on top of you, which is a whole ‘nother level of aches and pains, so you really do try to crawl to bed.

Tonight, you’d engaged in a little self-care after catching some cheesy, after-dark softcore on one of your premium channels. “Fuck it,” you’d thought as you’d sighed and rolled over onto your stomach, barely pulling the afghan over your bare ass, warm and flushed despite the chill, January air. (The radiators had dipped back down, but at least they were  _ on _ .)

You wake up because Mary is pressed into you. Your shirt (one of his), is rucked up your back, and he’s kicked your legs apart. His teeth worry at your neck, and two of his fingers slip into your folds. As you moan, you bring an arm up to encircle his head, but he slaps it away.

“ _ Shh _ . Be still,” he growls.

Ah. So, it’s going to be one of  _ those _ nights.

You let yourself go limp, fighting the natural inclination to rock back into his fingers. Mary is all teeth and snarls, panting as he gets himself worked up. He rearranges you to his liking, and you let your limbs hang loose and heavy in his grasp. As he works, you can feel his cock—worked free of his jeans—rut against your ass, leaving trails of precum.

The tease of it—not touching Mary, not grinding back against him—always gets you going, and you feel yourself get wetter; Mary does too, and you hear him grunt in satisfaction. All you want to do is rub into the couch—or squeeze your thighs together—to relieve the burning arousal between your legs, but the denial is part of the game, for you at least.

Mary’s teeth scrape down your neck, disappearing for a moment only to land on your uncovered back. They continue down your spine as his hands grab at where you’re most fleshy. You can’t help the shiver that travels through you, but Mary doesn’t seem to notice—more interested in applying the edges of his teeth to the meatier parts of your ass. Subtly, you bite the edge of one cushion.

Mary blankets you with his body, and you can feel the bare skin of his chest as he rubs himself on you, his dick still poking into your ass cheeks. His nose finds its way into your hair, smelling you as it travels down into the crook of your neck. You feel more than hear the rumble in his chest as his hands work their way under your body to squeeze and fondle your tits. Whining slightly, he ruts into you as his hands continue to grab your tits and as his fingers swipe at your nipples.

The throb between your legs is now an intense thing, insistent in its bid to call attention to your ignored arousal. As if Mary can somehow sense the pulse through your skin, he wiggles his way back down your body—giving your bottom a cursory nip—before resting his head on the back of one thigh; two of his fingers circle then enter you, and it’s an exercise in your control not to moan out and push back on them so you can mash your sweet spot into his knuckles.

He doesn’t continue this act for very long, and—even though this was what you’d expected—you swallow a whine in protest. There’s a wet sound, which you assume is Mary tasting you on his fingers, and then his presence is gone from the couch. There’s some harried fumbling and rustling behind you—the telltale clank of his undone belt as it’s jostled about—before the couch sinks once again under his weight.

A familiar pressure presses against your hole right before Mary’s cockhead pops in and a huffed out grunt escapes from his lips. You’re grateful that he can’t see the way your eyes roll back and mouth slackens, but he must feel the slight twitch of your cunt even as you endeavor not to clench around him.

Rearranging your legs and gripping onto your hips, Mary rubs his tip in and out of you, and you feel it exquisitely as the ridge catches and pulls at your entrance. You try to keep your breathing steady against the urge to pant with need, as Mary continues to tease himself like that, and you can feel how his hands grip tighter, tighter,  _ tighter _ .

As soon as he starts to tremble, he suddenly blows out a punch of air like a popped tire, and then he’s burying himself to the hilt in you with a groan. His hands slide up to your waist as he attempts to pull your body into each of his thrusts, and you can feel with every slap against your ass how his pelvis is coated in your wetness.

Mary is grunting along with each slap, and you can feel the damp spot on the cushion—where you bit or maybe drooled—as your cheek rubs against it. He shifts, and it’s enough that he’s now grazing your G-spot with every punch into you, and— _ fuck _ . You feel like maybe you could cum just from this. You want to reach back and grab his wrist; you want to slam  _ your _ ass into  _ him _ ; you want to scream out, “Oh god, Mary—fuck me harder.”

But that’s not how this is supposed to go, so you just try to take a deep breath without him noticing as the throb of your clit beats in your ears.

As soon as Mary starts speeding up—him openly panting now—he falls down over you, boxing you in with his arms. His sweaty forehead presses into your shoulder as his arms squeeze tight around you, his breath heating the patch of shirt covering your shoulder blade. He’s pounding into you hard and fast, and if he could keep it up just like this—just for a few more minutes—you’re  _ sure _ you could cum … but you know he’s at the point of no return. When he finally presses into you, long and deep—rumbling low in his throat—you swear you can feel just how hard his cock is before it kicks and hear his growl turn into a series of short moans as his hips give aborted twitches into you.

Once he collapses on you—his weight heavy as he wheezes through his nose—you don’t even wait for him to calm down, not caring if it ruins the play. You wiggle around—his messy cock popping out of you unceremoniously—and press yourself into him.

“I’m  _ so fucking close _ , baby.  _ Please _ get me off.”

Mary’s face is a sweaty ruin—his hair is stuck to him, his makeup like a Pollock painting—and his eyelids open as if stuck together.

“Fuck,” wheezes Mary, and then his mouth is on yours and his fingers are slipping back into your slit.

He tastes like a distillery—metallic, but sweet and tangy—and from this position you can smell the booze sweating out of him, but his fingers are clever and sure; they press and swirl at your throbbing nub as you suck on Mary’s tongue and bite hard on his lips. Your hands are in his hair and yanking hard on his locks as your already whorling arousal becomes a concentrated thing—all you can think about is the exploding sweetness every time the pad of Mary’s finger swipes over your hard clit.

You can feel your orgasm approaching, and all you want to be is  _ theretherethere _ (some dim part of you aware that you’re shaking Mary’s head).

“In me! I want a finger  _ in me _ ,” you demand.

There’s a slight pause—and you mewl in frustration—as Mary reconfigures his hand position so that he can insert a digit into you while still massaging your clit.

And  _ fuck _ —that’s so much better. Your pussy pulsates in agreement.

“Oh fuck, Mary—I’m gonna cum. I’m gonna cum. I’m gonna—”

Your orgasm explodes over you like an EMP, wiping out your lower brain function as you jerk and twist into Mary’s body. The sounds you make aren’t pretty, but that doesn’t seem to discourage Mary from softly kissing your neck. You don’t even have time to come down because Mary’s fingers. Do not. Stop.

He speeds up on your clit again (you had barely registered that the pad of his finger had slowed) and you push weakly at his shoulder.

“Oh god, Mary, I’m—”

“So good to me. So good. Lemme me good to you, baby doll.”

Your nails dig into his biceps, and you’re sure there will be crescents left in his skin for days, but Mary is not deterred from getting you off one more time. It’s a quick, intense thing, and you don’t hesitate this time from pushing his hand away when you’re done.

The two of you lay like that—sweaty, panting, and pressed against each other as you hold Mary’s one hand at the wrist—for a few beats. You almost think Mary’s passed out, until he speaks.

“Jesus, woman—I might need a neck brace.”

“Your own fault,” you mumble into his collarbone.

His hand comes up and clumsily strokes through your hair, and you sleepily wonder if he just wiped your juices off in it when he did so. You’re just drifting under when Mary’s lips move against your forehead.

“Go pee.”

“No. Comfy.”

“Fucking do it.”

“Why?”

“You’ll fucking blame me if you get a UTI, and I don’t need that shit.”

You sigh heavily into his throat and extract yourself from the couch. Mary shivers and pulls the afghan around his nudity as you fumble about for your wool feeties.

Once in the bathroom, you get lost performing your nightly toilet, and by the time you come back out, Mary is snoring on the couch. If Mary had his choice, he’d want you to snuggle in with him, but you don’t really feel like spending a cramped night on the couch getting elbowed in the face, so you cover him with the extra blanket off your bed before settling in for the night.

* * *

You’re awoken in the early morning when Mary wiggles artlessly into your bed, jostling you about.

“You left me,” he murmurs into your neck as he wraps around you.

“Thought we’d sleep better this way.”

You feel his warm breath on your nape as he grunts, which you interpret as, “You’re right, but I still don’t like it.”

Whether you’ve slept for a few more minutes or a few hours, you can’t tell, but you’re woken once more by Mary’s lascivious attentions. His lips press into your neck as his hands wander up and down your arms and chest, and his hard cock is poking in between your thighs.

“Mare.”

“Mmm.”

“What’re you doing?” you singsong.

“Nuthin’.”

His fingers tweak your nipples through the shirt, and you gasp.

“You wanna?” he asks.

“Mmm,” you rumble, convinced, as you move one of his hands down to your pussy.

He swirls at your clit until you’re good and juicy, and then he fumbles to press his dick into you. You sigh and he grunts as he sinks home. Pulling you closer, he begins to slowly fuck into you, mouth sucking at your neck. You try to urge him faster, but he’s content to keep his languid pace. He brushes your hair back and kisses behind your ear as his hand—which he’d pressed to your belly to steady himself—wanders back down to toy with your clit.

Again, you try to speed up the pace, but he just continues lazily.

“C’mon, Mare. Want you to fuck me.”

“I am fucking you.”

“ _ Mare _ ,” you whine.

“Lemme have my sleepy morning fuck,” he grumbles.

You sigh heavily, but let Mary have his way. He builds you both up slowly—keeping his steady pace til nearly the end—as his mouth and hands play all your sweet spots. As soon as you start spasming and clenching around his cock in climax, Mary’s thrusts speed up. You’re bouncing off him, but you hardly care—content to ride out the waves of your orgasm as he slams into you.

“God _ damn _ , you feel good,” he pants.

“ _ Mmm _ .”

Afterwards, he paws at you and demands  _ Kisses _ , so you wiggle around and are content to let Mary pet and stroke at you while trading sloppy kisses with too much spit. You entice him into a shower—ok: you poke him until he snarls and snaps  _ What? _ —and successfully avoid any more interludes.

Your pussy needs a breather.

* * *

It’s much later—breakfast has been cooked and consumed—and you’re lounging across the couch as you leaf through a beauty mag with your legs outstretched and your feet under Mary’s t-shirt, pressing into his bony ribs. He’s sprawled out in a hoodie and boxers, arms resting along the back of the couch as he watches one of those food competitions. You could really give a fuck about Helen and her buttermilk biscuits, but Mary—as on brand as usual—likes the drama, yelling along with it as if it were a wrestling match.

At some point, Mary idly grabbed one of your feet through his shirt and is now massaging it with his hand. You rest the magazine on your chest and close your eyes. After a while you think it’d be really nice if he did the other foot, so you wiggle and squirm, making non-verbal noises at him.

“Fucking now what?”

You jab your big toe of your bereft foot into his side. “Do the other one.”

“You and your prissy fucking feet.”

You scrunch your face at him. “Mare Bear,  _ c’mon _ .”

“You want me to take care of your foot?”

“Yes!”

“You really want it?”

“Mary!” you whine.

“Ok!”

He yanks your foot out from under his shirt and runs his blunt nails lightly up and down the sole of your foot.

“OH MY GOD, MARY,” you squeal and try to jerk away, but he holds you firmly.

“Ah ah ah!” he chides.

“Fucking stop! Mare! Let go! Let go, Mary!”

His fingers only continue to hit every nerve on the bottom of your foot as you try to break free.

“Oh my god, stop fucking tickling me!”

He does not.

You roll up your magazine and bop him hard on the nose; he makes a startled noise, and you use the opportunity to slip your foot free. He catches your wrist before you can smack him again and makes your bop yourself on the forehead.

“Stop hitting yourself. Stop hitting yourself. Stop hitting yourself.”

You sputter at him, but he smacks you again, so you press your foot into his balls. He squeals—something very opposite of his death growl—and recoils away from you violently, dropping the magazine as his hands go to cover his crotch. You just curl into a ball, cackling loudly.

“I don’t like you anymore,” grumps Mary. He flicks the magazine at you with his wrist, and it flutters open before landing sprawled on your chest.

You’re still having an acute attack of the giggles when Mary reluctantly and warily unfurls. He glares at you. His eyes land back on the magazine, and he picks it up—this time to examine it.

“The fuck you reading  _ Cosmo _ for?” He looks up, squinting at you as your giggles start to peter out. “Where d’you even get this?”

You reach out your hand and make a grabby motion, so Mary hands it back over.

“It was in my shrink’s waiting room. I wanted to finish the article I was reading.”

Mary snorts as you flip through the somewhat crinkled pages until you find the section you were looking for. You bend the cover back and show it to him.

“ ‘Sexy Secrets Your Man Wants You to Know’,” he recites. He furrows his eyebrows at you. “This is stupid.”

You pull it back toward you and shrug. “It was entertaining enough. It says here most men prefer blow jobs to fucking.” You look at him and raise your eyebrow. “Do you?”

Mary snorts. “Sex is sex, oral or otherwise.” He lightly scrapes his blunt nails down your leg. “I’m happy just busting a nut.” He waggles his eyebrows at you.

You roll your eyes. “I don’t believe for one second you don’t have a preference. If you  _ had _ to rank them—how would you?”

He actually seems to take some time to consider it, absently taking your foot up again, before looking back at you.

“Well, if you’re  _ making _ me choose, I’d have to say—yeah:” he ticks off his fingers, “blow job; your cunt; titty fuck; hand job.”

“Huh.”

“ ‘Huh’?”

“I guess the others don’t surprise me—I mean my tits  _ are _ fucking amazing—”

“I feel like I don’t fuck them enough—” He reaches out to squeeze one of your breasts.

“—but I am surprised you’d rank a bj first. Why?”

He shrugs. “Dunno. Guess there’s something, uh … forbidden about it? Like, my dick’s not supposed to be there?” His hand rubs up your calf and back down. “Plus, it’s not as, um … passive, I guess, as your cunt is. And when you’re sucking me, I know it’s because you want it.” His eyes catch yours. “Want me.”

You lean forward. “You don’t think I want you when you fuck me?”

He runs his hand through his hair in an agitated manner. “See, this is why I didn’t want to fucking answer.”

You shift and knee over to him, crawling into his lap—which he accepts—and rest your arms over his shoulders.

“I didn’t mean it like that, Mare Bear. I was just curious.”

He runs his hands up your thighs and then rests on your hips; he looks up at you.

“I can’t really explain it. It’s like … you’re  _ supposed _ to let me fuck your pussy. But when you use your mouth, it’s a choice you’ve made. It’s like … you’re accepting my dick—and that’s really fucking hot.”

His hands slide back down to your thighs and dig in.

“But of course I fucking love fucking into you. It’s the better sensation. There’s just … the way you feel around me when I cum—feels so fucking good.” He licks his lips before biting his plump bottom one. “And fuck—you get so wet and open. My cock just … slips so easily in and out of you. So soft and so slick, and I know you want me. I’ve fucked girls who are so tight, and it’s like: do you actually want me in you? Are you even enjoying this? I know some shitheads like that, but I just don’t get it. What’s hotter than knowing your lover is fucking open and dripping for you? I’m not really into fucking anyone who isn’t down.”

You lean down and kiss him, more than a little turned on. He accepts you readily, his hands slipping down to your ass before pushing you closer into him where you can feel his semi.

“Hmm,” you hum as you break the kiss.

“Hmm?”

“What about that other thing, though?”

Mary furrows his brows at you.

“What ‘other thing’?”

“You know … that  _ thing _ you like? Last night?”

You feel him tense minutely.

“What about it? You said it was fine.”

“It  _ is _ fine. I was just curious … it seems at odds with what you just said.”

His hands recede, and he crosses his arms, leaning back into the couch.

“Are you saying you aren’t down for it?”

“Christ, Mary. Why are you getting so defensive? That’s not what I said at all.”

He turns his head away from you.

“I just don’t see why you gotta interrogate me.”

You turn him by the jaw back to face you.

“I just want to understand why you get off so much having me pretend to be unconscious or passed out given what you just said.”

Mary jerks away from you, but it’s in surprise.

“What the fuck.”

“What?”

“Is that what you think that is?”

“Um …”

“Jesus fucking Christ, Suey.”

He presses his palms into his eye sockets.

“What??”

He rubs at his eyeballs before looking at you.

“You can be really … unaware … sometimes, you know that? Can you use your brain?”

It’s you who crosses your arms this time.

“There’s no reason to be a dick.”

“If you paid more attention to literally anything besides what revolves around you, it’s really fucking obvious, you know.”

You feel your face heat.

“Whatever,” you say, and then you’re extracting yourself from his lap and stomping off to your room. You try to slam your door, but the clothes from the hook behind it get caught in the frame, and it instead bounces back open. You’re already throwing yourself onto the bed, so all you do is huff in annoyance before you bury your face in a pillow.

You hear a  _ Fuck _ from the living room, and then Mary’s heavy tread.

“Dramatics. Really?” Mary says from the doorway.

“Well, you love drama. So,” you mumble into your pillow.

“Don’t be a fucking smartass.”

“Takes one to know one.”

After a minute, Mary sighs, then you feel the bed dip. His arms go to wrap around you, but you spit out a  _ No _ and try to squirm away.

“Don’t be a bitch, c’mere.”

He tries again, and you grunt, but ultimately let him pull you into him.

“Baby doll.” He sighs. “You’ve listened to our songs. You’ve scrolled through my camera roll.”

“Yeah …?”

“Please put two and two together.”

After some thought, you do.

“Oh.  _ Oh _ .” You wiggle around to face him. “I’m supposed to be … dead.”

Mary lowers his eyes, shrugs.

“Some guys like feet. Some dudes buy internet panties. For me, it’s … corpses. The beauty of decay …” You feel him shrug. “I just. Assumed you … understood.”

For as much as he’s curled around you, he’s also curling in on himself.

You take a moment so you can choose your words carefully.

“I mean, it’s a little … weirder … than I thought,” you say as you stroke his head, “but being kink shamed fucking sucks—I can speak from experience. So this—us—can be a sexual safe zone, ok, baby? I might tell you I’m not into something, but I’m never going to fucking judge you for it. So you want me to play dead sometimes … ok.” You run a hand through his hair. “Besides, it’s hot when you get all turned on. You might have noticed I‘ve been into it.”

Mary presses into you. “This is what I was fucking saying. It’s better when you’re both down.”

He tilts his head to engage you in a kiss, his mouth greedy for yours, and you meet it with a returned fervor. After some negotiating, your one leg is draped over him as he ruts into the space between your legs. One of his hands is tangled in your hair, the other squashed in between you two as he thumbs at your nipple; one of your hands is cupped around his ass, urging his thrusts into you.

You slide your hand down and cup his balls through his boxer briefs before rolling them in your palm. He makes a pleased sound before pressing harder into you. You press behind them, and he rumbles, giving your tongue a hard suck before sliding his own hand down your front until he reaches your pussy. Your wetness has already spread across your folds, and he uses it to lightly trace his fingers over your lips.

When you moan out at the delicious tease, Mary breaks contact with your mouth to say, “Yeah, just like that—moan for me, lemme hear how much you want it” against your lips. He continues to trail his fingers around you, almost barely touching your soft skin. You can practically feel yourself slick further, the tops of your thighs now slip-sliding against each other. A huff of pleasure leaves your lips, and you throw your head back; Mary takes the opportunity to start sucking at your neck. He’s still only lightly running his fingers over your folds, and it’s driving you nuts, your clit throbbing in time to every beat of your heart.

The pad of a finger gives your hole a barely there press before trailing your wetness over your seam. You make a sound of frustrated consternation, and Mary says, “Mmm, somebody’s impatient.”

You take the hand that’s been intermittently rolling his balls and slide it up to the opening in his boxers; you slip your hand in to get a good grasp of his dick—it’s warm and moist, your fingers tacky against it. When you begin to roll your fingers on it, Mary grunts and thrusts his hips.

“Fucking tease.”

“Turnabout’s fair play,” you taunt as you lick his ear.

He growls, and suddenly a finger slips into you, his thumb pressing at your clit.

Something high pitched and whiny punches out of you as all that buildup suddenly pools and causes you to spasm.

“Cry out for me,” Mary demands as his digits press insistently at you in tandem.

“Mary!” you whimper.

“What was that?” He presses harder.

“ _ Mary _ !”

His thumb isn’t being gentle at all, but your clit is already hard, engorged, and bubbling under the pressure. You’re ridged and jerking against him, your hand no longer stroking his cock—but you can feel him smiling against your neck.

And then you’re cumming. Hard.

You’re panting and moaning and jerking as your pussy pops and your muscles clench and unclench … it seems to go on forever, especially since Mary doesn’t let up on you at all. You’re practically screaming, and still Mary keeps going.

“I wanna hear you sing one more time, baby doll—and when you do I better hear my name or I’ll make you go again.”

“Oh Jesus cocksucking fucK,” you respond.

There’s a low buzzing in between your legs that Mary coaxes into a full roar in almost no time at all. It almost seems too soon, but you feel the telltale tingle just as you’re about to crest again, and you cry out  _ MaryMaryMaryMary _ right before you spasm again around his fingers.

When your head clears, you slump into the line of Mary’s body, and he gently extracts his fingers from you even as he’s beginning to rut frantically into you.

“Oh fuck, oh fuck,” he gasps into your skin. “You’re  _ so wet _ —can I put it in you? Please? I want to cum in something warm.”

“ _ Yeah _ ,” you breathe out languidly.

You artlessly fumble trying to push down your sleep pants, but Mary’s already thrusting his dick in between your slick thighs, grunting in pleasure. His hands come around to grab handfuls of your ass as he thrusts.

“So good!” he gasps.

For a minute you think he’s going to cum just like this, but soon enough he’s trying to get his dick in you—which is easier said than done at this angle and with your pants still around your knees. After some cursing and manipulation with both your hands, he finally sinks into you—still sensitive, you groan as he fills you, and he lets out a breathy moan of relief.

His thrusts are jerky and unsteady, his movements into you half desperate.

“Your cunt is here for my cum,” he growls. “Just to take my load.”

“I’m your cum dumpster,” you purr in his ear.

He makes an  _ Unmph _ sound and locks up, so you clench as hard as you can around his cock.

“Fuck!” he exclaims, his spittle spraying you slightly and his blunt fingernails digging into your arms as his hips jerk into you over and over as he rides out the waves of his orgasm. You finally feel the tension ease out of him, and his thrusts slow, even if they don’t stop. Eventually his soft cocks pops out of you enough that he can’t keep going, so instead he sighs and rolls on top of you.

You let out an  _ Oof _ and squirm in protest, but he just grumbles at you to deal with it. His forehead is sweaty, his hair sticking to it in tufts, and you can’t help but run your fingers through it; Mary rumbles happily.

The two of you doze like that—sticky, sweaty, sated, and in a state of undress—until a loud cheer emanates from the TV, rushing you back into consciousness. Mary’s weight is pressing on your bladder, and—despite his unhappy noises and grasping hands as you push him off you—you separate yourself so you can jaunt to the bathroom.

Again.

You shouldn’t be surprised when Mary wanders in soon after. Luckily you’re washing your hands; unluckily Mary begins to relieve himself. When you squeak and quickly turn away, he  _ tsks _ at you.

“I thought we were over this.”

“Christ, Mare. One conversation doesn’t negate nearly 2 decades of upbringing.”

He finishes and jostles you out of the way to wash his hands.

“You just called yourself my ‘cum dumpster,’ but ok.”

You stick your tongue out at him in the mirror, but he just grins at you.

“What time do you have to leave for work? Soon?”

He sighs.

“Not soon, no. I don’t even know why he wants me to come in at all. He’s got enough staff tonight, but I guess he needs someone to close and do break down and stuff. He trusts me or some shit—which is nice, I guess—but he doesn’t even want me to show up ‘til 2am.”

You wrap your arms around his skinny middle.

“So what do you want to do?”

Mary jumps his eyebrows at you, but you slap his chest.

“If you fuck me one more time, I swear my vagina is going to fall out.”

* * *

In the end, you set up the latest binge-worthy show on Netflix on your laptop so the two of you can lounge in your bed all afternoon as you scream at each episode's cliffhanger. At some point Mary retrieved the magazine and insisted on doing the “Which  _ Sex in the City _ character are you?” quiz.

“No, seriously. How did you get ‘Samantha’ and I get ‘Charlotte’?” he grumbles as he starts to do the math again.

Your head’s in his lap as he reclines against the wall (his thighs are excellent pillows) as you trail a finger idly up and down his leg. You’re only half listening now, your mind ruminating on all the things Mary told you today.

“Mare?”

“Yeah?”

“Is there anything else?”

He puts down the magazine.

“What do you mean?”

You wiggle around so that you can look up at him.

“Is there anything else that you like that you maybe haven’t told me?”

His face scrunches up in thought.

“Oh. Um.” He pushes your hair behind your ear. “I’m pretty sure it’s not your thing— _ which is fine _ .”

You slip a hand under his shirt to rest on his stomach to ground him.

“Tell me anyway.”

He stares down at you for a moment.

“Blood play—or I should say: I like the  _ taste _ of blood.”

You feel your eyes widen (though you shouldn’t be surprised), but Mary just chuckles and ruffles your hair.

“We can shelve that one, baby doll. What about you, huh? Other than tormenting me, that is.”

You worry at the hem of his boxers.

“ _ Well _ …” you draw out slowly. “It’s that. I’ve always wanted to, um.” Your face heats. “Top a dude. I’ve just … always identified more with the guys in porn:  _ inserting _ instead of, uh,  _ being inserted _ into— _ shut up _ —appeals to me. A lot.”

Mary snorts.

“You like control. That’s not new info.”

You make a mean lemon face at him. “I don’t hear you complaining.”

He grins at you. “True.” His hand slips into your hair, tugging just a little. “But, uh …” He licks his lips. “I’d definitely be into that. You pegging me.”

You perk up. “Really?”

“What do you think?” he says as he guides your hand to the outline of his half-hard cock.

Looking up at him, you wriggle your hand through the slit in his boxers and wrap your hand around his rapidly growing hardness. Mary just looks down at you with hooded eyes.

“I think …” you say as you give him a loose jack. “That it feels like you’d enjoy me bending you over and fucking you.”

Mary exhales.

You press your thumb into his sweet spot, and he swallows.

“That I’d make you come on my cock or not at all.”

“Jesus Christ, Suey,” he breathes.

You swipe your thumb over his tip and stroke your curled fist back down.

“That I’d like to hear you beg me to cum.”

Mary’s dick throbs, and you pull it out.

You lick your lips and bite them, then you momentarily let go of him so you can spit into your palm. When you wrap your hand back around him, Mary shudders.

“I bet you’d like me to fuck you hard and fast.”

Your hand jacks him faster, and Mary twitches, his eyes closing.

“But I’d fuck you nice and slow.”

You slow down the speed of your strokes, and Mary lets out a huff of air.

“Wanna hear you whine for it.”

You squeeze his dick.

“Whine for it.”

“ _ Please _ ,” whines Mary as his hips jerk.

“Please, what?” you ask as you trace your thumb around the ridge of his cockhead.

Mary’s eyes snap open to look down at you, glazed and unfocused.

“Please let me cum.”

“Mmm. I’ll think about it,” you purr as you start stroking him again, adding more spit. If you weren’t so comfortable, you’d consider taking him in your mouth, but Mary seems to be enjoying himself, in any case.

You stroke him at a moderate pace for a few minutes before you stop and stretch your arm out. Mary makes a pitiful noise.

“Just giving my arm a break.” You smile sweetly up at him.

“Please let me cum … let me cum,  _ please _ ,” he pants with feeling.

More spit and you’re back on him, giving him long strokes where your fist almost comes off him, Mary gasping on every downstroke as your wet fist glides back over his tip.

“Oh god— _ faster _ ,” he breathes.

You stop, his dick throbbing as you hold him at the base; his eyes snap open and look down at you.

“What was that?” you demand.

“Um … faster?”

“Oh, I’m sorry—who’s driving this?”

Mary gulps, and you can see the sweat dripping down his face.

“You are.”

“So, who are you to give me directions?”

“N-No one.”

You start stroking him again—extra slow.

“I mean,” you muse, “I  _ could _ go faster, but … I don’t know if I  _ should _ if you’re going to be bossy about it. Maybe I should just stop all together.”

Mary’s fists clutch at the sheets.

“No,  _ please _ .  _ Please _ let me cum,” he begs even as his cock kicks in interest. “I’ll be good, I promise.”

“Hmm. I don’t know. Maybe I should leave you like this to teach you some manners.”

“ _ Fuck _ , Suey. You gotta let me cum.”

“Do I?” You tap at his sweet spot with your thumb, and he jerks. “Are you sure?”

“ _ Yesss _ ,” he hisses, and his hips almost leave the bed. “Fuck, I gotta work.”

“Ok,” you sigh in mock disappointment. “Consider this your first and only warning about manners. I won’t be so lenient next time.”

You start to jack him with intent, and Mary goes rigid.

“Oh fuck,  _ thank you _ . I’ll be so good. I  _ promise _ .”

Shifting around, you manage to get your other hand under his balls, and soon Mary is tensing and gulping. There's a distinct throb between your legs, and you’re squeezing your thighs together almost in time to every downstroke. Mary’s eyes dart to the movement.

“Can I touch you?”

You make a noise of assent and shimmy your sleep pants down enough that Mary’s hand can easily access your cunt. When his finger makes contact with your slickness, his eyes roll back into his head.

“Oh my god.”

You’re not unaffected by the circle of his finger, and you start jacking faster. It’s not long before the two of you are in a feedback loop, clumsily petting at each other, hips rocking.

“Oh fuck, oh god … I’m gonna …” moans Mary, and you’re quick to press the head of his hardening cock onto your tongue, rubbing a little.

Mary’s head snaps down to look at you, and then his hands shoot out to grab at the covers as you taste the salt of his release in your mouth. You bring your lips around him and  _ suck _ . Mary moans hard, and one hand grabs at the back of your head to hold you in place. You’re happy to stay there as Mary rocks his tip in your mouth.

Then he relaxes back into the pillows, and his hand falls limply down to his side.

“Fuck.”

When his breathing slows a little, he looks down at your smug face.

“C’mere,” he says as he tries to maneuver you into his lap. You kick off your pants and straddle his thighs. Mary pulls you into a heated kiss as his fingers find your clit again, and you press into him, hands on his shoulders for leverage.

In the end, you ride his fingers more than he manipulates you, rolling your hips and pressing into him as you chase your climax. Your hands creep up into his hair, and you yank it down as you get higher … higher …  _ higher _ …

And then Mary’s finger is flicking at you rapidly, and you’re gasping as your cunt tightens, then releases, releases,  _ releases _ —you rocking into him to ride out the pleasure. When you slump, Mary’s finger slows, then disappears so he can wrap an arm around you.

“That was nice,” he says as he presses a kiss to your neck, which makes you shiver.

“ _ Mmm _ .”

He rubs your back. “You’re good to my dick.”

You snort a laugh and lean back a little to look at him.

“We need to keep better track of the lube.”

Mary holds his hands up in front of him. “I ain’t touching anything in this room without permission. Keeping track of that giant bottle is all on you.”

Grimacing, you look around. “Maybe it rolled under the bed?”

“You’re a disaster.”

You scoff at him. “I’m not the one who’s going to be late.”

Mary jerks his head to your clock, where it shows he clearly has hours to get ready and leave. He gives you his grump face.

“You’re the meanest the girl in the entire world.”

“You dig it.”

He huffs, but a smile twitches at the corner of his lips.

After that, you wiggle back down and curl around one of his legs as he continues to read the magazine in silence, his one hand idly massaging your scalp. You’re halfway asleep when you’re jostled awake by Mary getting up, and you grumble, turning your head to smush into the bed.

“Hey,” says Mary, his voice close.

You grunt.

“I’m going to get ready and leave.”

“Mhm.”

You hear him laugh.

“Ok, baby doll. Go back to sleep.”

Even as you’re drifting off to sleep almost immediately, you feel him press a kiss into your hair and adjust the blankets around you.


	22. There's Something About Mary

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Mary POV**  
A day in the life of our crusty Mr. Goore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're switching things up, kids, with a Mary POV chapter bc I want to and I can. Enjoy!

Mary wakes up horny.

He must have been having a pleasant dream, because his cock is hard and throbbing where it rests heavy against his thigh. He shoves a hand down into his undone jeans to give his cock a squeeze—just for a moment of relief—and, as the touch wakes him up fully, he realizes he can hear the distinct sounds of sex from one of the rooms. A _thump thump thump_ and a _squeak squeak squeak_, all punctuated with blatant moans.

_Fuck it_, he thinks, and he begins to jack it to the sex orchestra going on, not 10ft from where he lies on the couch. Once a place they sometimes took turns on, the couch has become Mary’s de facto room—a subtle punishment for his supposed defection. So, he has no qualms about masturbating in _his room_, and if any of the other guys have an issue with it, Mary has no problem making his display more public, just for spite.

He pauses only to spit in his hand when his dry palm begins to chafe. It doesn’t even matter when the noises from the other room cease (and later Mary will have to tease them about their staying power), Mary just scrolls through his mental Rolodex until he brings up the memory of his dick in between Suey’s tits, how they jiggled despite being held together, how shiny they became once covered in his jizz, and how she looked up at him as she contorted one to bring it up to her mouth to lap some off.

“Shit, _shit_,” he exclaims as the memory of her pink tongue lapping up his cum causes him to release. Some shoots up his bare chest, but most of it lands and pools in his belly button. Eyes still closed, his free hand shoots out and fumbles for the box of tissues on the table, encountering instead a stack of thin takeout napkins.

As he does his best to clean himself up with the napkins—whose integrity is suspect—he can hear the low rumble of male voices and a high, feminine giggle from the sex room. Just to be a jackass, he gets himself up so that he can have first dibs on the bathroom.

Making sure to lock the door behind him, Mary turns on the hot faucet, willing the water to warm up sooner than later. He takes the opportunity, while he waits, to piss in the toilet; it’s already open—toilet seat up—even though it’s supposed to put it down when they have guests. They’re out of TP again, so a roll of paper towels rests on the lid of the tank.

Once the water is warm enough, Mary uses a couple pieces from the roll to clean off the jizz drying and to give himself a brief wipe down. His face is still half crusty with makeup, and he’s tempted to just add to it, but he’s learned from hard experience how that can fuck up your face, so—even though it’s a goddamned pain—Mary washes his face. He even uses the harsh Dial hand soap, even though the acrid smell will get up into his nose for hours.

He thinks of the nice-smelling scrub Suey has and her drugstore face cream he sometimes rubs into his skin.

In the soap- and toothpaste-speckled mirror, he starts to apply his “Day Face” (as Suey calls it) from the communal box of makeup (his better stuff is in his backpack): a light dusting of white powder; some eyeliner all the way around; a dull, red lipstick; and black shadow on his cheekbones.

He’s just starting on his hair when there comes a pounding on the door

“Fucks’ sake. C’mon, Goore.”

Mary turns his head upside down in the sink basin so he can haphazardly splash some water into his hair.

“Fuck off, douchebag.”

He starts to work his fingers into his locks, coaxing the glue already in it to activate. 

“She’s gotta pee, man.”

He fluffs his forelock in the mirror as his other hand searches for the blood tube in the box.

“We have a kitchen sink.”

A small voice tells him not to take his annoyance with his friends out on the girl, and he sighs.

“Stop being a di—”

The voice cuts off as Mary swings the door open. Brendan's angry face smooths into one of minor irritation. The girl—_Lisa_?—stands, thighs crushed together, in an oversized kitten t-shirt. She looks at Mary, wide-eyed; her gaze darts to his bare, wet chest before snapping back up.

“Lis,” he says, winking as he saunters out.

Her face crumples a little.

“Lizzy,” she says, and Mary’s stomach swoops a bit when he realizes he’s probably slept with her before.

He makes himself smile as she moves past him to the bathroom.

“That’s what I said: Liz.” He shoots her a finger gun at her as Brendan scowls at them both. When the door closes and Brendan is still glaring, Mary lets out a “What?”

“You sticking around for breakfast, man?”

Mary rolls his eyes. “I’m here, ain’t I?” He starts to paw through the plastic shelving drawers next to the couch for a shirt.

Brendan shrugs. “Thought your pussy-whipped ass might need to get back to that uptown princess of yours.”

He glares at Brendan. “Stop being dick.”

“She’s fucking slumming it, dude. I’m warning you.”

It’s not a new argument, so Mary just ignores him, instead trying to apply a bit of blood to the tip of his forelock using the heart compact Suey gave him.

Titus emerges from the shared room, yawning, in his terrible leopard print robe that’s way too short.

“Morning, asswipe,” he says to Mary as he walks by. “What’re we bitching about?”

Brendan says “uptown girl” as Mary says “nothing.” 

Titus sighs.

“Jesus, Brendan. You gotta get over that. That’s Mary’s mistake to make.”

“You know what? Fuck this shit.” Mary starts getting his backpack in order.

“That’s right! Blow off another band meeting!” says Brendan, and Mary spins on his heel to stomp back.

He jabs a finger into his chest. “I’m here all the goddamned time, more than I am at her place. I come to every meeting you tell me about.”

“I shouldn’t have to _tell_ you about anything. You should just _be_ here. You should be _committed_,” hisses Brendan.

“I’m going to make some toast,” says Titus as he swishes toward the kitchen.

Mary rifles through his plastic draws and slams a notebook and loose papers onto the table.

“There’s mine, dude. Lyrics. Composition. Where’s yours?”

Donnie and Jamie wander out of their room.

“Not this shit again. It’s too fucking early,” says Donnie.

Brendan vibrates. “What about _funds_, man? A social media presence? You think all that happens by magic?”

“So I’m supposed to write, _and_ compose, _and_ do the budget?” snarls Mary.

“_Guys_,” moans Jamie.

“And our Insta is shit, by the way.”

“Fuck. Can we not?” moans Donnie.

Mary again jabs a finger at Brendan. “Then tell him to can it. I’ve already been exiled to the couch. I don’t need him picking fights because he doesn’t like my girlfriend, who—by the way—has never fucking done anything wrong.”

“You haven’t been exil—” Jamie starts.

“We were supposed to fucking _share_ those rooms,” Mary hisses as he gesticulates. “I pay the same amount of rent, and yet I come home one day to find all my stuff in a pile in the living room. I have to wait for you guys to stop playing video games because ‘this is shared space’ to fucking sleep.”

“We all agreed—”

“_No_. _You guys_ agreed. I didn’t get shit to say about it. So you’ll forgive me if I’m not too fucking keen on being pleasant.”

They all stand there, glowering at each other until Donnie says, “I need to take a goddamned piss,” and finds the bathroom door locked. At his soft _The fuck?_ the lock clicks, and Lizzy opens the door cautiously.

“I’m sorry. It just. Seemed like you guys were getting into it.”

Brendan sighs. “C’mon, babe. Let’s get your stuff.”

The fight isn’t a new one, and—with no resolution in sight—they all drop the subject so they can get on with the breakfast of eggs on toast Titus brings out and the subsequent band meeting. The Brick—a cheap, overworked laptop—is brought out so they can go over band business: the budget; the van maintenance and parking costs; the gig and practice schedule is outlined so that they can align their work shifts; new merch ideas are bandied about; and they talk about how to improve their digital sales.

Mary’s leg jiggles impatiently.

The meeting breaks nearly 5hrs later; Jamie goes back to sleep because he’s got the night shift at the Quik•Mart; Brendan heads out for his afternoon shift at Target; it’s Donnie’s day off, so he cues up Mario Kart; and Titus decides he’s going to go pound on the drums in the practice space they rent, since his dad pays his bills.

Mary has been saddled with stopping by the local record stores to see if any of their physical CDs have sold to prove he’s “committed,” even though he’s got the closing shift at Sixes & Sevens.

As he’s leaving the building, he encounters Brendan, who is leaning against the brick, smoking a cigarette. Mary’s fingers twitch.

“So you’re not coming back tonight, then.”

“We have band business?”

“No.”

“Then, no.”

Brendan lets out a puff of smoke.

“You think I’m being a dick, but that girl _does not care_ about you. She’s a tourist. Us—the band. That’s what’s real, Mary.”

Mary knows he should keep walking, but even after counting to 10, he’s still pissed, so he spins on his heel.

“You don’t know anything about her or her goddamned life.”

“Neither do you.” He finishes the smoke, then tosses it to the pavement to grind under his combat boot. “We’ll be here when it all explodes in your face, Goore. But you’re going to have to rebuild a lot of bridges.”

And then he’s off down the sidewalk. Mary stands there, seething, waiting until Brendan disappears round the corner since he’s also headed in that direction.

He’s not really in the best of moods when he hits up the first store, but by the 4th, he’s back to his plucky repartee. The owner of his favorite shop intimates that a vinyl version of their LP might sell much better than their DIY CD, and Mary enthusiastically thanks the dude as if it’s the first time such a concept has been considered.

The whole route honestly doesn’t even really take that much time at all—maybe 2 hours—so he chances stopping by Suey’s. Worst case, he’ll take a nap; best case, she’ll be there to bitch at him.

Like everything else today, however, circumstances are just not on his side, and he opens the door to her tiny fucking apartment to find it empty. The mail is bad again, and he rifles through it, plucking out anything that’s obviously junk to toss and anything that looks like a bill to put on her counter. There’s only a bowl in the sink, so he leaves it.

He’s hoping that she comes home before he has to leave—maybe she’ll even give him a blow job—as he wraps himself up in the afghan that smells slightly of her.

She doesn’t.

His alarm wakes him up at 4:15pm for his shift at 6. Groggily, he stumbles to the fridge to see what there is to eat, and finds a pot crammed in haphazardly amongst the other food items. Mary’s not really sure what he’s looking at—Suey tends to just throw shit together when she can’t be bothered, but most of the time it’s edible.

It ends up being some sort of cheesy potato stew and actually isn’t that bad. He eats the whole thing out of the pot before scrubbing it and the lone bowl clean. He waits as long as he dares to watch her come clomping tiredly through her door, but he really does have to leave. He leaves a kiss on her mirror after he reapplies his lipstick. (He should probably redo his face but: eh.)

Work is work. It starts slow—with Mary taking down the chairs and wiping off everything with the disinfectant spray. Sometimes Mary finds this kind of Zen—a time to hum out chords and roll around lyrics in his head—but today he’s just tired. It gets a little better when Mickey and the other bartender show up to do citrus prep. It’s a weekday, so there’s only a moderate crowd, and Mickey leaves them to it so he can do business manager-type things in his office.

And then there are the girls. Most of the girls who come to Sixes & Sevens aren’t the type to be put off by Mary’s whole shtick—and there are obviously the ones who come here expressly to flirt with him—so he has no qualms turning on his charms. Mickey lets him do it because customers are customers, and if girls want to come and spend money on drinks while they purr at Mary, who is Mickey to stop them? Len or Mika don’t give a shit because tips are pooled.

Used to be Mary could have his pick of a warm body for the evening—some girl (or occasionally some guy if Mary deemed him beefy enough) who’d take him to her nice-smelling, clean apartment … who’d let him spend the night on her soft, downy pillows after he pounded her into next year, before kicking him out at dawn. But now he’s got a girlfriend—one who makes sure he eats and yells at him to wash his face—waiting for him in her stale apartment with her flat, polyester pillows, and Mary hopes he’s not fool enough to fuck that up.

Not that his dick has gotten the memo.

No matter how many times Mary tells that fucker that he’s not going to fuck any of these women, his dick still twitches in interest whenever plump lips are wrapped around straws or fingertips trail over his hand. Tonight is especially bad for some reason, and Mary has to stick close to the walls of the bar so that no one can see his semi. A girl in a furry, white shrug seems particularly on his dick, and he does his best to flirt _just enough_ for a good tip, but not enough for a proposition.

When he gets his break, Mary takes it out back in the alley by the dumpster. The air is chill, but it feels good after the humidity of the bar. He was hoping maybe his dick would go down, but it’s like it’s trying to spite him. Leaning his head back on the wall, he can’t help but close his eyes and run his palm lightly over the outline. It’s a fool’s errand—it’s not like he can get off without it showing on his pants—but that doesn’t stop him from touching.

A voice clears, and Mary startles. He’s out here by the rancid garbage so he can be alone, so he wasn’t really expecting to find anyone else.

“I can help you with that,” says the girl with the white fur that may or may not be real. She’s standing across from him, and he can see that she’s in a dress so simple that it must be hella expensive. She’s holding an unlit cigarette.

Mary jerks his hand away from his crotch, shifting so that he can surreptitiously adjust his jeans.

“The fuck are you doing out back here?”

She shrugs. “Needed to get away from my bitches. I love them but: drama city. You got a light?”

He knows it’s a ruse, but he still fumbles out his Zippo because he’s a goddamned gentleman. She, _shockingly_, takes the opportunity to move in closer to his body as he holds out the flame … close enough to blow the smoke of the first drag in his face.

“So,” she says, eyes darting down to his semi. “You want me suck that?” She gesticulates with her chin, posture nonchalant but eyes hungry.

His dick gives an answering throb, but he shrugs. “Nah. I got a girl.”

She looks at him, assessing, before half crossing her arms and taking another drag. Smoke pours out her nose.

“She’s not here.”

Mary doesn’t respond immediately, not knowing how to get out of this. She hasn’t said anything untrue. He’s horny, Suey’s not here, and she wants to suck his cock.

He reaches his hand up and taps his breast where he thinks his heart is.

“She’s here,” he says, and he’s glad Suey’s not present because _hoo boy_ would she give him shit for that winner.

The girl just tilts her head at him, this time blowing smoke out the side of her mouth after she inhales. It occurs to Mary that he wants her cigarette more than his dick wants to be sucked. If she thinks this is some kind of elaborate game of hard to get, she’s sorely mistaken.

“You got a picture?”

“A … what?”

She gesticulates impatiently. “A picture. Of this girlfriend.”

Mary thinks, then pats around for his wallet, even though he only ever puts it in his back pocket. When she sees the wallet come out, she laughs.

“An actual picture? That’s old school.”

He shrugs as he rifles. “I’m on my break.” He doesn’t tell her that his ancient flip phone doesn’t take pictures. Well, not good ones.

The photo of Suey he has is relatively new—slipped in behind the old, worn one of his mum—but its edges are starting to soften. In the image, Suey stands, hip popped, as she gives him the finger with a snotty look on her face. She’s in one of her weird 90′s outfits—a micro mini and tied up band tee—and the cute pudge of her belly hangs over her waist band a little. Her hair is pushed back from her face because she’s just lifted up her sunglasses—there’s still a little mark on her nose where they were resting.

She hates this picture, but her attitude makes him smile.

“You gonna ogle it all night, Mary?”

Mary’s attention snaps back to the alley. He ignores the intimacy. Carefully, with a stern look on his face that he hopes conveys how much the photo is _not to be fucked with_, he hands the picture over.

White Fur looks at the picture for a long time. Then she looks up at him. She gives the image one more glance before handing it back to him.

“Yeah, ok,” she says as she crosses her arms again.

Mary tucks the photo back into his wallet.

“The fuck does that mean?” he scowls. He’s just about had it with people insulting Suey today, and some random-ass girl in a back alley is the last person he’d let get away with it, even if she is a fan.

She takes her last drag before flicking the stub in the direction of a dumpster.

“Dunno. You seem like the type to have some scene girl with more legs than brains hanging off your arm.”

Mary thinks that’s a little uncharitable: he’s always been an equal-opportunity lay.

“She seems legit though,” the girl continues. “Makes sense.”

“Uh. Thanks?”

“Yeah, no problem.” She heads for the door, but stops to smirk at him. “Looks like I helped after all.”

As she swings back inside, Mary looks down to realize his hard-on is gone.

* * *

Mickey doesn’t cut him early, but he doesn’t make him stay past closing either. Even so, it’s still after 3am when he gets to Suey’s. The bills are gone from the counter, but there are no new dishes in the sink. He opens the fridge to find a pizza box crumpled into the top, balanced precariously on the other items. Mary takes it out and inhales the cold pizza right from the box; he knows they’re all for him because Suey fucking hates pepperoni. (Though it doesn’t escape his notice that she’s put one piece of pineapple in the center to mess with him.)

He leaves the box by the trash (he’ll flatten it tomorrow), and then makes his way to her bathroom to wash his face and brush his teeth, lest he incur her wrath.

When he finally wiggles into her twin bed in his boxers, he’s bone tired. His dick still kinda wants some action, but Mary thinks he’d probably just fall asleep in the middle, and Suey really would bite his head off if he woke her up for no reason. He wishes she’d just sleep nude, but finding her in one of his well-worn shirts is the next best thing. He doesn’t mean to wake her up, but he can’t help himself from running his hands all over her—this girl who sees _him_ and not his “image.”

“Mare?” she says in a quiet, sleepy voice.

He kisses her head.

“Go back to sleep, baby doll.”

She doesn’t speak again, but she squirms around until she’s sprawled across his chest. He’d prefer to have her caught up in a little spoon, but having her pressed into him—body sleep warm—is nothing to wave a stick at. 

This is all he wanted, anyway.


	23. Areas of Interest

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An upsetting piece of mail arrives, and Suey opens up more than the letter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I tried to make this as close to legally plausible as I could, but I may have stretched it a bit to fit my plot! ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯

It’s such an innocuous thing. A plain-letter envelope. White. You get a handful of them a week—everything from credit card offers and random insurance quotes, to politicians asking for money. You often wish there was a no-mail registry.

When Mary tosses it onto your lap with a, “This one looks important, babe,” it doesn’t even occur to you to be wary of the contents therein. You don’t even look at the return address, so convinced are you of it being so much trash.

As your finger slips under the flap to rip the envelope open at the top, you can hear Mary banging around your apartment—no doubt tossing his backpack into your room, washing his face in the bathroom, and digging for gold in your fridge. When part of the paper slices the side of your index finger, you curse and suck your finger into your mouth, then you half rend the envelope in two in your irritation that this missive should mar you such.

Tossing the ripped paper in the direction of the coffee table, you unfold the single sheet of paper, expecting it to be the updated privacy terms of your bank, or your credit card company reminding you to activate the new card no doubt still buried in mail mountain.

When you read the actual contents, you blink a few times, your brain trying to decide if you’re reading English or not in your confusion. It’s as if you expected to be eating lemon custard and it turned out to be banana pudding. A tiny spark of frustrated anger ignites in your stomach, but you push it down and breathe through your nose.

_Fucking typical_.

You’re still staring at the words on the page—not really seeing them—when Mary plops down on your couch hard enough that the liquid in his beer bottle splashes out and onto his black, long-sleeved shirt.

“Shit,” he hisses as he pulls the wet spot into his mouth and sucks. He half giggles, his head turning to you, “I—” he starts, but cuts off when he sees you staring at the paper. “Suey?” He puts down the bottle and scoots closer to you. One of his hands lands on your leg. “Hey, what’s wrong?”

Your burning eyes flick up to meet his gaze. Mary’s face is still glowing from your face scrub, and loose tufts of his hair are still plastered to the damp sides of his hairline. Forcefully exhaling air out your nose—before you really have time to think about the consequences—you flick the paper at him and turn your head to look out at the darkness of your tiny window.

Out of the corner of your eye, you see Mary take up the letter, the paper rustling as he adjusts the folds. His lips move as he reads, and his brows furrow the further he gets. It’s not a long correspondence, so when he doesn’t immediately say anything, you know the gears in his head must be spinning.

Finally, he says, “Suey, what is this?”

“It’s not obvious?” you say as you make a plaintive gesture.

He folds the letter and holds it out back to you. “I mean, I understand what it’s saying, but … uh … I don’t understand why it’s giving you poop face. I’ve never had a loan in my life. I sold my blood plasma once. Ok, more than once.”

Taking the paper—only to set it on the coffee table—you huff out a half laugh at Mary.

“Jesus, Mare.”

He shrugs. “Needs must, as mum would say.” He rubs your thigh. “But, what’s got you so upset?”

You look down into your lap. It’s not that you don’t want Mary to know. You just don’t want to have to tell him. If you hadn’t been in a fit of pique, you’d’ve thought better of inviting him into this particular aspect of your life. 

Since you’re worrying at the afghan, you’re startled when he crawls over into your space and insinuates himself between your legs. He noses into your neck, and you tilt your head so he can press his lips into your skin.

“You need a happiness injection?” he rumbles as he twitches his hips into you.

And yeah.

Yeah, you do.

Leaning back, you spread your legs so Mary has more room. He sucks at your neck as his hand paws the afghan away so he can slip under your layers to grope your breasts and pinch at your nipples.

Letting out an _Ah_, you relax into the couch. Reaching down, you grab handfuls of Mary’s ass and push him into you. He rumbles and presses his hard-on in between your legs. When you lock your ankles around his waist, he begins to rut into you, and his mouth leaves your neck to find your lips. Your hands fly up to sink into his hair, and the two of you grind against each other while exchanging sloppy kisses. Every time Mary’s thumb flicks your nipple just right, you jolt into him with a gasp and he bites into your bottom lip.

“Do you really want me to fuck you?” he growls in his lower register.

“Oh god, yes, Mare—please fuck the shit of me.”

He jolts up, yanking off his shirt as he goes, blown eyes still focused on you. You squirm to kick off your sleep pants, twisting around until you’re half lying on the armrest as Mary fumbles to get his pants open. He starts pushing your layers up off your back, but you jerk away from him.

“No, _cold_,” you whine.

“Just fucking do it,” he snaps, and you let him shuck off your hoodie and t-shirt.

And he’s like a furnace when his back drapes over yours. One arm supports him as the other comes up to fondle clumsily at your hanging tits, his teeth scraping across the nape of your neck. You moan in encouragement and arch into him.

His hand leaves your tits, and you lean forward to rest your forehead on the armrest. His fingers dip in between your lips, and you gasp at the sudden feeling of his fingers on your pulsing clit—but he doesn’t linger; he’s satisfied that you’re wet enough, so he uses his hand to guide his dick into you. His tip has barely breached you before you’re pushing back into his pelvis.

“Shit,” he hisses, both hands flying to your love handles to steady you.

Eagerly, you start rocking back into him forcefully. He slaps your ass, and you gasp in surprise.

“_Hey_. Just who’s fucking who here?”

“Then make me cum!”

He tangles his hand into your hair, forcing your head back so he can growl in your ear. “You know I’m good for it.” 

Mary lets go, and you fall down onto your forearms. He punches into you—slow at first, then picking up speed as he slams his hips into the meat of your ass. You squirm around until he’s hitting your G-spot, and then you let his fingers dig into flesh as he fucks you hard.

Despite the chill, you’re sweating, so when Mary’s chest connects with your back, they slip-slide against each other. He presses you down flat into the couch—growling at you to close your legs together—as his hips continue to pound into you. Your cunt throbs, and you squeeze your thighs together while you grind into the couch as Mary grunts into your ear. It’s not enough pressure to get you there, and you whine Mary’s name.

It takes a bit of fumbling, but Mary gets you both up onto your haunches so he can swipe at your clit while you bounce on his cock. You have one arm awkwardly draped around his neck behind you as he worries his teeth into your neck.

“That’s right, baby doll—” he huffs, “—cum on my cock. Wanna feel you tight around me … wanna cum so deep in you my jizz can’t drip out.”

Panting, you ground down into his lap, the teeth of his zipper biting into your soft flesh. You press your hand into the one of his on your cunt.

“Harder … circles,” you gasp out.

His finger adjusts to your direction.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah …”

Between the stretch of his cock filling you, the press on your clit, and the grind into his lap, you feel your pussy pulsate, and you know your orgasm is a foregone conclusion. Your nails dig into his neck, and you let out a little moan of exquisite distress. He grunts into your neck, his hips trying to work double time.

It’s not quite intense enough to make you squirt, but you bear down like you’re going to and cum hard.

“Fuck-fuck-fuck-fuck,” you chant as your body locks right before you jerk and twist in time to the waves of your orgasm. Mary’s arm holds fast around your waist as you thrash. 

Like a champ who isn’t desperate to cum himself, he fucks you clean and steady through your climax. You’ve barely even begun to slump when Mary’s leaning you back down into the couch. The fabric of the cushion presses hard into your cheek, and one of your arms flops off the side, but you just let yourself meld into the couch as Mary positions you to his liking.

His nails are hard in your flesh, and his hips smack forcefully into your ass as he chases his climax. He’s always hard—wild—when he’s been holding off until you cum; his lust-drunk brain sees it as his right, and you don’t dissuade him, often encouraging him with purred words and subtle movements.

“That’s right, baby,” you say breathily, “you fuck that thick cock into me.” Mary grunts, never slowing down. “I want it in me so far I’ll be able to taste your jizz.”

His fingers move to shove into your mouth. “I’ll make you fucking taste it. Shove my dick in your mouth when I’m done.”

You suck on his fingers, running your tongue around them. Mary snarls, yanking his hand away so he can pull your hips back onto his dick. As he thrusts deep into you, he pulls with such force on your waist that he accidentally hits your cervix; you let out a little mewl of surprise as his hips twitch with little abortive thrusts into you. Still grunting in pleasure, his grip loosens a bit, and one hand strokes down your belly as if in apology. When he finally relaxes, he spends a few moments catching his breath as his hands rove over your curves, softly caressing them.

“Mare,” you say, squirming under him, impatient to get back under the afghan now that neither of you are creating an excess of body heat.

He lets out one final huff before falling down onto you. You grunt out in surprise, but he just chuckles as his hands wiggle under you to grab your tits.

“Sorry, no escape. You’re at my mercy.” 

He kisses the nape of your neck, and you roll your eyes even though he can’t see. You clench hard around his cock, and he yelps.

“_Jesus Christ_, Suey,” he grumbles as he flinches away from you. “I give you the best dicking of your life and this is how I’m repaid?”

You giggle and turn your head so he can see you stick your tongue out at him. “I’m a bitch.”

He gives you Burt Face as he tucks his dick back into his boxers and shifts to shuck off his jeans.

“I’m gonna pee,” you announce as you slide off the couch. You take the afghan with you, and Mary flails a little as the action almost jostles him off.

“Christ, woman!” he calls after you.

When you come back, Mary’s still on the couch, and he’s curled into a ball. He pulls you down onto him with a, “Fuck it’s cold,” before the two of you tumble into a prone position. You wiggle into his big spoon as he tries to arrange the afghan to its best advantage over you both.

Once he’s settled, you say, “You hungry?” and he snorts.

“Mebbe.” His one hand runs down the hills of your body. “But I just got comfy. Could nap first.”

“Ok.”

It’s not even that late, but it’s been dark since the early afternoon, and your eyes slip shut easily, content in this cocoon of warmth with Mary’s evening breath hot on your neck.

You don’t sleep so much as lie quietly with your eyes closed, but Mary lets out little snuffled snores now and then. It’s only when his hands start roving again do you know he’s back awake. You expect him to jokingly bitch about making his belly full now that his balls are empty, but he just sighs and pulls you closer—which surprises you because he knows he’s risking your biting his arms off to get free. 

His lips graze your neck—more of a rub than a kiss—before he starts to speak. “You know. Mum wasn’t even that sick. I mean—you think cancer, and it’s like. Years of chemo and shit, right? Maybe remission in between? headscarves and weight loss?” You fumble to find his hand to fold into yours. “But mum … she had this cough that didn’t go away. She thought maybe bronchitis or walking pneumonia. But it was lung cancer. They gave her four years with an aggressive treatment plan. She was gone 8 months later.”

You wiggle around to face him. His gaze is far away, but his eyes are dry.

“That’s terrible, Mare.” You kiss the tip of his nose and run your fingers through his hair. He kisses your knuckles.

“Fuck. I was 19, and I didn’t know anything about anything. My mom had just fucking died and all of a sudden there were lawyers and medical bills, utility bills and funeral costs, and I just wanted it all to go away. Second mortgage? What the fuck was that? I barely graduated high school, and that was just for mum.”

“What about your … family?” You’re a little embarrassed that you don’t know about any aunts or uncles he has out there. Grandparents?

“What family? If the sperm donor had any, they were never around. Mum … well. That’s a bit of a sordid history.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah. She was always told she was an oops baby by her parents—her brother and sister were already out of the house by the time she was in preschool—but I guess after they died it came out that she was actually the kid of a _second_ sister. Teenage pregnancy and all that. Died in a car crash from her boyfriend driving drunk.”

“Jesus, Mare.”

“I guess there was always some bad feeling about mum ‘replacing’ their sister that kept them from really connecting. I have vague memories of visiting them and being blown off by much older cousins, but then Aunt Celia died when her appendix burst, and I guess her husband didn’t really see us as family. I could pass my cousins on the street and I wouldn’t know them from Adam. Uncle David got divorced and moved to Florida, where he lived in assisted care because of a stroke.”

You pull him closer. “I’m sorry.”

He shrugs. “It’s not like I knew them. Mum had a pretty good found family, anyway. Some of them tried to help but … they had their own shit, you know? Even if they did more, maybe it would’ve all went to shit, anyway. Or maybe if I’d known anything about financial shit or loans or whatever, I wouldn’t’ve been out on the street.”

You wait for him to go on. But he doesn’t. 

It’s apparently your turn to speak.

“It’s not … I’m not going to be out of the street, Mare.”

“But it must be bad. It upset you.”

You sigh. “It’s not _bad_ … it’s just a fucking slap in the face, is all.”

“Why is it a slap in the face?”

“It’s really not worth getting into. It’s … it’s fine.”

You hope he’ll just drop it—he usually does if you’re insistent enough—but instead Mary huffs out a heavy sigh. “That’s it? I open a vein for you, and you still gotta be Fort Fucking Knox?”

“It’s not like that, Mare Bear,” you rush to say pressing your forehead into his. “It just…” You can’t quite seem to be able to articulate the issue. There’s too much background involved—if you open a vein, you know you’ll bleed all over him.

He pulls you tighter. “I just want you to fucking tell me shit. I think I’ve been pretty fucking patient.”

You would really rather not—you don’t look back on your girlhood with fondness, and if you could, you would like people to just accept you sprung fully formed as a person at 20. And maybe you’re even a little trepidatious that Mary may view you differently. You like how he sees you now.

You feel him start to shift away from you as he mutters, “Whatever,” so you throw your leg over him. He’s still pouting at you (and not in the cute way), but he’s stopped trying to wrangle free. You run your fingers through his hair.

Taking a deep breath, you say, “How about the elevator pitch?”

He thinks about it. “It’s a start.”

Your mind whirs, trying to find the best way to succinctly explain the situation.

“I owe my parents a lot of money because they’re dicks and punishing me for leaving.”

When you don’t go on, Mary blinks at you. “Ok, so that’s super fucking vague.”

“That’s the elevator pitch.”

He rolls his eyes at you.

“Gimme the long story then.”

You bury your face into his neck.

“Do I have to?”

Mary sighs, one hand coming to rub down your back. “I mean. I’m not gonna make you, but I wish you would.” He traces the chain of your necklace absently. “…If that even matters.”

You make a petulant noise and squirm back around.

“Of course it matters, Mare.”

When you don’t get off the couch (like he’s clearing expecting), Mary’s arms come back around you, one hand traveling down to rest on your belly. It brings him joy to always have a handful of you anywhere, so you tolerate the touch.

“Then tell me.”

“Jesus _fuck_, Mary, you’re persistent. Fucking _fine._”

He kisses the back of your neck, and you roll your shoulders at him to convey your irritation.

“Look. First, you have to know that I was supposed to be _exceptional_. My parents had this whole … _plan_. I attended this college prep school where I was pushed to take a shit ton of AP classes. I think the aspiration was Harvard, but I was a mediocre kid in a program full of really smart ones (and _that_ was a lot of fun, let me tell you), so I didn’t quite manage Ivy League. My parents saw it as quite the moral failing on my part, but I did get accepted into NYU. Their goal for me was a B.A. in 2 years followed immediately by law school, so I spent that spring studying to test out of my gen eds. Had to make my parents look good, you know.”

“Wow.”

“Ye**p**. And college was like … a full load. In addition to my regular courses, I was also taking accelerated online classes. I didn’t party, I didn’t join ‘fun’ clubs, I was buying Adderall from the kids in my dorm so I could snort it to focus, and I certainly didn’t date. I mean, I still had plenty of sex—” Mary chuckles at this, and you huff at him. “Look, a girl’s gotta let off steam _somehow_.”

“Yes, I know, baby doll. I’ve been your stress reliever for a while now.”

“Shut the fuck up, Mary,” you say, but it’s without heat, and Mary just presses his face into your hair. “**Anyway**, occasionally the friends I somehow retained got me out of the dorm, but my only real goal was graduating early on time. With the addition of full summer classes, I _did_ graduate in 2 years, but it certainly wasn’t at the top of my class or with any honors, much to my parent’s horror.”

You drift off, thinking of that screaming match.

“Suey?”

Shaking the memory off, you continue. 

“Well. They were _extremely_ displeased I’d cost them bragging rights, especially after the whole Ivy League debacle, but at that point I barely cared. I needed a fucking break, you know? Instead, they forced me to take the LSAT immediately—can’t deviate from The Plan!—and, _shocker_: I **bombed**. I mean, maybe if I’d had some time off I could have passed, but I was also pretty sure the law wasn’t for me, so maybe it would have always worked out that way. All I knew was I hated debating, I hated mock trials, and I was always shit at application. Look, I can memorize the hell out of lists and stats … but I can never seem to _apply_ them creatively.”

At some point, Mary had interlocked your fingers, and now he squeezes them.

“I thought my parents would finally fucking let up, but: no**p**e. They said all I lacked was focus, that clearly it was my ‘partying’ that was the issue. _Partying_. As if I’d even had the time! But they’d completely rewritten history to support their claims. They even said they had proof from the college staff! Like, _what_? What possible proof could they have had?! And of course they couldn’t show me this ‘evidence’ because they said they didn’t want to betray confidences.”

“Fuck. Gaslighting much?” spits Mary.

“Yes, exactly. It became like DEFCON 1. They were outlining how I was going to stay home, how they were going to monitor me while I studied to take the LSAT again, and how—once I passed—I would have to pick a law school close to home so I could live with them to make sure I stayed ‘focused’.”

“Jesus, what the fuck,” says Mary softly.

You wiggle back around to face him.

“And I just couldn’t do it anymore, Mare. I _couldn’t_.” Mary’s arms tighten around you, and you realize it’s because you’re trembling. “The thought of one more month, forget another _three_ years …? I was burnt out as fuck, and I basically told them to fuck off. They gave me an ultimatum: our way or the highway. And fuck, that felt so freeing. Like, why hadn’t I considered that sooner? I packed a bag as they screamed at me about respect and obedience and owing them for the roof over my head. They gave me the whole ‘if you leave, don’t come back’ speech and the ‘you’re no longer part of this family’ song and dance. I walked to the station and took the bus to my friend’s—that’s Arry—apartment in the city with literally everything I owned in my backpack and duffel. My parents told me that I’d ‘regret’ my choice, but I just … I don’t know what I thought they meant, but it didn’t seem like anything I’d miss.”

Mary nuzzles you. “That’s my girl.” You relax into him.

“I had the best two weeks of my life where I finally felt free. I had no idea what I was going to do, but it was my decision to make, you know? I’d get a job—any job—and save up for an apartment. I’d live with 12 people if I had to. Maybe I’d take night classes. But … then I got a notice from their lawyers.”

“Christ.”

“My parents were claiming that I triggered a breach of contract or something. _Apparently_ I signed something saying the money they spent on my schooling was conditional on me becoming a lawyer. I honestly don’t remember any such thing, and Arry has maintained they forged my signature … but fuck—maybe I did. God knows I filled out so much paperwork applying to schools while I was burnt out from studying. I just wanted out of that house—I’d’ve signed anything in front of me if I thought it’d help.”

Mary kisses your forehead.

“At first I ignored it—like how could they make me, you know? I just slept on Arry’s couch and applied to jobs. I was a waitress for a week until I got fired for being bad at it. I couldn’t get a retail job because I had no prior retail experience. I thought I was pretty ok at the neighborhood theater box office, but apparently subscribers thought I was rude, so.” 

You detect Mary trying to swallow a snort, and you give him a warning poke. 

“I even tried those jobs where you stand outside the subway and try to get signatures for world peace or something, but after someone spit in my face and I threw a rock at them, that was out.”

“Oh my god, Suey.” 

“Look. I’m bad at dealing with people. We know this,” you grumble. “I thought maybe I could be a SuicideGirl, but apparently ‘alternative’ doesn’t mean chubby.”

“They’re a shitty company, anyway. I’ve known a few—”

“Not the point, Mary” you snap, irritated that _of course_ Mary knows SuicideGirls.

“Sorry.”

You grunt at him, but soften it by smoothing his eyebrow with your thumb.

“I had finally seemed to settle in doing filing for a realty company that didn’t care about how I looked as long as I did my job and stayed in the back—which was fine by me—when the debt collectors started calling. They called nonstop and sent letter after letter. They even phoned the office! I finally reached out to a former professor who ran the mock trial club, and he said there was _some_ precedent for their claims, but even an ok lawyer could probably get it voided. He gave me a list of recs, but it was so hard getting in touch with them. Those that called me back basically told me their cut wouldn’t be worth it for them to take on. It was so much money to me and so little to them; it was so fucking frustrating. I eventually contacted an organization that did pro-bono work, but they said my situation really wasn’t what they were there for.”

“Wait—so, what _are_ they there for then?!”

“I didn’t really ask.” You shrug, remembering how you’d hung up before you could truly start blubbering. 

“There was finally one guy who felt really bad, and he said he could send them a strongly worded letter on his stationary—but that was all he could do because of billable hours or whatever—and I said fine. The calls stopped, and I thought maybe, _maybe_ his letter had done the trick … but then I got another missive from their lawyers. This one was an itemized list of everything they’d paid for: the private school education; the exams; the tutoring; undergrad. The paper said that they had concluded my primary school expenses were a ‘gift’, but any cost related to my _secondary_ schooling fell under the agreement I ‘signed’.”

“What? _Seriously_?”

“Yeah,” you sigh. “And it’s so clearly bullshit, but I was _so tired_, Mare. Half a win seemed like better than nothing at the time, and I just wanted to move on with my life, you know? That’s when Arry suggested getting certified as a paralegal. The peanuts I made at the relator wasn’t going to be enough to make my payment plan _and _save up for first and last _and_ just fucking live in general.”

You huff out a bitter laugh, and Mary strokes your hair.

“In a sense, they got their way. I’m not a lawyer, but.” You shrug, willing him to fill in the blanks.

“That’s fucking awful, Suey. My head is … I can’t even comprehend.” After a beat he says, “Don’t you fucking work for lawyers, can’t you—”

You cut him off, irritated that you’re going to have to explain this again to another person.

“I_ have_ tried, Mary. Apparently, because I’d been paying them for years, I strengthened their claim or whatever. Like, paying them back means I acknowledged the validity of the contract. I _did_ try and push for more, but I’m just a freelance paralegal hired to work by the case. I don’t know any one attorney well enough for them to risk getting pinged by their bosses for doing me a favor.”

“No, I can’t believe that. There has to be—”

“Mary. It’s done. I tried, it didn’t work out, and I put that chapter behind me. I … I made peace with it a long time ago. My freedom came with a price. I’m willing to pay it.”

When you don’t say more, the two of you lay there for a time. Mary strokes up and down your sides, and you almost doze off until he speaks again.

“So can I ask about The Letter, or will you eat my face?”

“Oh … yeah.” You sigh again. “So, I’m not just repaying them, I’m repaying them _with interest_. The letter is to inform me that, due to inflation, the interest rate of my ‘loan’ is going up.” Your head tilts back, and you look up at the ceiling. “I shouldn’t be so upset about it. I’m gonna be paying it off ‘til I’m like 47, anyway. What’s another year or so? It just feels like salt in the wound, is all.” You close your eyes and press your fingertips into your sockets. “Like it just sucks, you know? They’re my _parents_. The whole fucking thing seems _excessive_, but whatever. Do they have to make it even harder out of nowhere?”

You hadn’t even realized you were leaking until Mary swipes away your tears with his thumb.

“Want me to fuck ’em up?”

“…what?”

Mary crowds into you further, if that’s even possible. “Want me to fuck ‘em up for you?”

You laugh.

“It’s fine, Mare.”

“Is it?”

You bury your face into his neck and breathe in his pungent musk.

“Can it be both?”

He nudges your head until you’re nose to nose.

“I guess I’ll allow that. For now.”

“Oh, you’ll allow it, will you?”

“Ye**p**.”

His mouth meets yours, and you let him kiss you, his lips hot on your own.

When he breaks away, he says, “But I have a limit, Suey. You’re my girl. Maybe that doesn’t mean anything in Snooty McSnootsville, but where I’m from, we don’t take that kind of shit. You’ll have to hold my earrings.”

You laugh. “Don’t you mean your beer?”

“I said what I said.”

“Don’t be weird.”

“I do what I want, as you say.”

You roll your eyes at him good naturedly.

“Does that include making us dinner?”

Mary fake groans at you. “What? I gotta do _all_ the work tonight?”

You stick your bottom lip out at him. “I’m naked.”

He bites his lip as his eyes flick down to where you’re covered by the blanket. Mary seems on the verge of starting round 2—and you’re almost convinced you’ll let him—but then your stomach growls loudly, and he blows out a laugh.

“See?! I _hunger_.”

“Fuck, all right, all right. Hope you wanted pasta, cuz that’s what you're getting.”

“With chicken.”

“Do you _have_ chicken?”

“There’s the leftover Kung Pow.”

“Fine, but I ain’t picking that shit out. You’re getting Kung Pow over spaghetti.”

You beam up at him as he extracts himself from your joint cocoon. “Thank you, Mare Bear.”

He waves away your sentiment. “I’m already doing it, you can stop laying in on thick.”

You bat your eyelashes at him and receive an eye roll in return.

“That shit don’t work on me.” 

(It does.)

He starts pulling his jeans back on, hissing at their coldness, and you sit up, wrapping the afghan around you further. When he’s all zipped up and re-shirted, he turns and—catching your eyes on him—gives you a soft look.

“Hey.”

“What?”

“Thanks.”

“Whatever.”

Mary smirks, and—only because you’re encumbered by the wrap—you fail to stop him from licking his finger and sticking it in your ear.

“_Gah_! Mary! _Stahp_.”

Giggling, he sprints away from you into your kitchen area.

“You’ll rue this day, mister!” you call after him, but he just gives you the finger behind his back.

As Mary half sings, half growls, and intermittently makes drum noises as he bustles around your kitchen, you fish around the couch—and surrounding areas—for your clothes. You watch as he swings his hips in an ungainly manner and beats a tempo on your pots, and a thought that had previously been an errant musing starts to take root.

“Hey, baby?”

His motion stops, and he looks over his shoulder at you with a “who me?” look on his face.

“Uh, yeah?”

“Do you have access to a vehicle?”

He furrows his brows.

“Kinda…?”

“Kinda?”

There’s a hiss of water, and Mary turns to lower the burner to medium heat.

“Um, the band has a van—well, it’s a 70s Mitsubishi Minicab, but we call it a van—for hauling our equipment and shit. Why?”

Smirking, you drawl, “Because I dig a guy with his own wheels.” At the last moment, you shoot him a replica of one of his finger guns.

He narrows his eyes at you.

“Suey … what are you up to?”

You shrug as you adjust the lay of your hoodie. “Just making sure you’re worth it.”

Mary jabs the fork he’s holding in your direction. “I _will_ eat this all myself just to spite you.”

Grabbing his warm beer, you skip over and bite his shoulder. “Just try it, mister.” Mary yanks the bottle from your hold, taking a big swig before setting it down with a thunk on the counter.

While he wipes his lips with the back of his hand, you shift around behind him and encircle your arms around his skinny middle before sliding your hand over his crotch. Mary jerks in surprise and curses when the action causes some of the simmering water to slosh over the side of the pot.

“_Suey_,” he hisses.

“Want a handjob while you do that?”

He looks sideways over his shoulder at you. “I know what you’re doing.”

Your hand slides down further to cup his balls before you give them a little roll through the fabric. Mary makes a sound in the back of his throat and leans into you.

“Do you care?” you purr.

“Hmm?”

You give his balls one last roll before you slide your hand back up to palm his growing bulge.

“I asked if you cared.”

His head tips back. “Um.”

Your lip curls. “Uh-huh.”

Fingers searching, you grope for the tab of his zipper. As you pull it down slowly, Mary sucks in a breath. When your fingers worm into the slit of his boxes and start to draw out his semi, Mary’s breath hitches. You wrap your hand around his filling cock and give him a loose stroke. When you swipe your thumb over his cockhead, Mary jerks into the stove, and the starchy water splatters everywhere. Now Mary jerks for an entirely different reason, cursing as he stumbles away from the stove. 

He rounds on you, stuffing his dick back into his pants.

“Fuck, woman—get out of here!” Mary shakes the fork at you. “Go keep the couch warm.”

“Sorry!” you squeak as you cover your smile with your hand.

“You’re on thin fucking ice.” He motions his fingers to his eyes then at you as you prance back to the couch.

The spaghetti ends up being a little overdone, but Mary’s eyes dare you to say anything about it, and—really—the noodles are just the vehicle for the leftover Chinese. You end up giving him a blowjob in apology for the stove incident and are rewarded when he has you as a nightcap after the two of you snuggle in for the night.

After he passes out, you lie there wondering—not for the first time—if your juices do anything to teeth enamel. You reach over and lightly scritch his head as your thoughts turn back to that seed of an idea.

Hmmm.


	24. A Terror

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A lazy movie marathon turns onto something more…and Suey gets the upper hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> # ⚠️🚨Hey guys! In this chapter there's some play fighting between Mary and Suey. It 100% consensual, but it gets pretty rough and may be borderline for some, so if that's not your thing, I've blocked out the section in ******* if you want to skip it! 🚨⚠️

It’s pretty late. 

Mary is watching some horror flick and giggling at the bits you sure aren’t supposed to be funny.

At some point you just laid down on top of him and never moved again, content to doze. His one arm is pillowing his head, but the other seems to travel from your hair, to your neck, to your back—then back up.

At some point you thought you might have felt his erection—and you’re always content to let Mary fuck you while you're half asleep as long as he doesn’t expect you to contribute—but he never did anything about it.

You must fall asleep again, because he’s shaking you.

“Hey,” he says.

“No,” you respond, realizing your cheek is wet with drool.

“You don’t even—”

“No.”

“I have to—”

“No.”

You try to wipe your cheek on his shirt—but apparently you’ve drooled through that too.

“So you’re totally fine with me peeing on your couch then.”

“What’s one more body fluid?” you mumble.

“I’ll do it.”

“I know.”

“Like for real, babe.”

“Mhm.”

When he doesn’t say more, you think maybe he might actually do it.

“Just so you know," he says, "I’m doing this for my own self-preservation.”

And then he tips you off him.

You let out an indignant squawk as you tumble to the floor.

“Fuck you!” you shout as he’s closing the bathroom door halfway behind him.

You can half hear him pissing as you crawl back onto the couch and cuddle yourself into the warm spot he’s left, pulling the afghan over you and your hood over your head. Where you press your face into the cushions smells vaguely of his hair product. 

You track the flush of the toilet and the rush of sink water before you hear the creak of the bathroom door opening again.

“Oh ho ho, a thief!” he chortles.

“Move your meat…” you mumble into the couch, not looking up.

You expect him to jostle back into his vacated place, but instead he lays down on top of you, causing you to expel an _Oof!_ as you’re flattened. (He may be skinny as fuck, but he’s still got some mass on you.)

“Mare! Get off!”

You squirm under him.

“No.” He snuffles into the nape of your neck.

“I mean it!”

“No.”

“You’re the worst, and I hate you. Get the fuck off me!”

“Make me.”

You’re still rather groggy—and Mary has the advantage here—so despite your best efforts, you remain thoroughly pinned under him. He bites the back of your neck through your hoodie, hard, and you grunt.

“You’re mine. I claim you.”

“You missed your opportunity to pee on me.”

“Guess I’ll just have to fuck you full of cum.”

Your heart quickens in interest, and you turn your head slightly.

“What about your movie?”

There's a slight pause before Mary quips,

“Background porn.”

“You’re fucked in the head, Goore.”

“Like you care.”

(You don’t.)

You can feel his hard-on pressing into you, and you're flushed with interest.

# ***

“Do you want me to fight back or lie still?”

His wet tongue licks your ear.

“Oh, now ain't those two delectable choices?” He ruts into you. “Yeah. Yeah, fight back a little. Make me earn it. You can even slap me around a bit.”

“Ok—but don’t choke me or rip my clothes. You’re a fucking menace to my wardrobe.”

He’s destroyed half your tights, a pair of sleep pants, and one blouse.

“Deal. Ready?”

“Yeah. Go.”

Mary yanks your arm behind you.

“I’m going to fuck the shit out of you.”

“Just fucking try it!” you spit before Mary presses your head down.

“Who’s going to stop me?” he whispers in your ear, and then he starts tugging at your hoodie. You squirm and wriggle against him, trying to make it as hard as possible for Mary to manhandle the sweatshirt off you.

“Fuck you!” you snarl.

“That can be obliged.”

He gives a yank, and a slight ripping sound can be heard. Mary freezes, then he lifts your arm to inspect the armpit seam.

“I think it’s fine.”

“For fuck’s sake,” you exhale before tugging it off fully. You toss it over the back of the couch before lying back down. “Ok.”

He grabs your hair. “Fucking cunt.”

You somehow manage to elbow him in the ribs, and he lets go of your hair with a grunt. You try to buck him off you, but he’s got the weight advantage. The two of you struggle—you flailing your limbs and him trying to keep you pinned while getting you naked—and soon you find your tits exposed while you look up at him. He’s looking down at your face, and he shoves his fingers into your mouth. When you bite down lightly, he yanks his hand free.

“_Bitch_.” 

He squeezes a tit. 

“I’m gonna make you pay for that.”

“The fuck you are!” you shout, and then you spit at him. 

He’s slightly startled, and you use that momentary distraction to slap him hard in the face. You heave yourself up and go to slap him again, but he catches your wrist. You’re so wrapped up in yanking your hand free that you don’t realize his other hand is in your hair until it’s too late. He crashes your lips together, so you bite down hard. When he yanks you away, he tongues his lip where you broke skin. His eyes are dilated, and he’s breathing hard. You slap him again with your free hand, and he makes a wounded sound.

So you slap him again.

At some point he dropped your wrist, and now you bring it up to squeeze at his jaw.

“Not such a big man now, are you?”

You smack his cheek, then wind your hand in his hair to yank his head back.

“Fucking answer me.”

“Fuck you, bitch.”

You slide your hand down from his jaw to squeeze at his neck.

“_Bitch_…” he wheezes.

You squeeze a little harder, and one of his hands comes up to grab at your wrist. When he doesn’t do much else, you squeeze just a little more. Mary’s eyes roll back, and his hips give a little twitch. You reach down with your other hand and fumble with Mary’s belt buckle and zipper. His dick is hard, and when you pull it free, you find it flushed, the tip shiny with his precum. You give it a small slap—a tap, really. His hand tightens around your wrist and a wheezing moan emanates from his throat.

“You want to call me that again, big man?”

“B-Bitch.”

You slap his cock again, just a little harder, and Mary’s whole body twitches. 

So you slap it again.

He whimpers, and his hand swiftly covers it.

“Yeah, that’s what I fucking thought,” you sneer as you shake him slightly. 

Letting go of his neck, you push him backward with both hands as you scramble out from under him. You shuck off your pajama pants before straddling him. He stares up at you with wide, dark eyes.

“Please,” is the only thing he says.

You stuff a pant leg in his mouth.

“Please nothing. You think you’ve earned my pussy?”

When he doesn’t answer, you slap him.

“Do you?!”

He shakes his head.

You give his neck a quick squeeze.

“Undress, but stay there.” You jab a finger at him, “Or I’ll have to punish you.”

# ***

You make your way to your bedroom where you grab your lube and towel that’s draped over the hamper. Hesitating, you then grab the hairbrush from his drawer (just for show).

When you come back out, you’re surprised to find Mary touching himself, so you give a crack to his hand with the brush. He grunts, but pulls his hand away.

“Did you think that was going to fly?”

His lowered eyes are your answer.

You start arranging things—the brush in view on the coffee table, and the towel folded in half under him—as you berate him.

“One would think that maybe you want to be punished. Do you? That can be arranged, Mary.”

Eyes still lowered, he shakes his head at you.

“Then be a good boy,” you say as you straddle him again. “Don’t touch yourself—or me—unless I give you permission. Nod if you understand.”

Mary nods.

“Good boy,” you say as you caress his cheek.

You pump a dollop of lube into your palm to coat Mary’s dick. As your slick fist runs up and down his length, Mary shudders and moans. When you slap his thigh, he jerks.

“Don’t cum,” you bark. “Not ‘til I say.”

He whimpers but nods.

Mary loves his instant gratification, so you make a slow business of running your loose fist from root to tip. You make sure to squeeze your hand as you pop almost entirely off his cockhead before pushing back down into your tight hold. Mary whines and twitches as his hands fist into your couch cushions. 

You lick your lips at every movement of his hips and every hitched breath that escapes his lips.

Suddenly, you speed your hand up to a frenetic pace, and Mary bows off the couch, letting out little siren wails. Your arm flies as Mary goes rigid and shakes from your ministrations. When you see him start holding his breath, you let go, and Mary deflates like a leaky balloon—with the same type of whine.

His eyes pop open and look at you plaintively.

You smirk at him. “Looks like I’m in charge here, bud.”

Mary’s heaving chest flattens as he lets a stream of air out of his nose, and you start up your slow build again. His eyes roll as his hips rock up into your fist, and you allow it because you love seeing how desperate he is for your touch. When your other hand comes into play, rolling his tight balls, Mary starts trembling again.

You wonder if he can smell your arousal.

As long as you keep jacking his cock and running your thumb over his sensitive spot, Mary doesn’t seem to notice that your other hand leaves his balls. You slip two fingers into your lips to lightly massage your pulsing clit—you press a little to relieve the tension, but this is about Mary.

Once your fingers are nice and coated, you raise them to Mary’s face so you can smear your slick under his nose and onto his lips.

“Oh god,” he moans when he realizes what you’ve done. His glazed eyes focus on you as sweat drips down his temples. You’re mesmerized by the way his chest heaves and his stomach contracts.

And then you speed up again.

Mary’s eyes squeeze shut, and he turns his head to bite into the corner of a back cushion. You bring him once more to the brink before letting go again.

He must have known what was coming, but his legs still jerk and he still whimpers at the loss of contact, his hips twitching up into nothing. It’s only once he settles do you start your slow stroke up again as he whines—in distress or pleasure, you’re not sure. (Both is good.)

You repeat the process until there’s almost no time between stopping and getting him all worked up to the point of blowing again. Mary's heels are digging into the couch, and you feel like you’re trying to stay on a mechanical bull. He’s been babbling _OhPleaseOhPleaseOhPleaseOhPlease_ for quite some time now, and you want to watch him shoot his load as much as he wants to release it.

Leaning down closer to him, you say in a husky voice, “I’m gonna let you cum.” Mary just groans and grips the couch harder. You speed up, fascinated and turned on by the way Mary twists and jerks from your touch. He’s practically hyperventilating now as his body shakes in between going rigid.

True to your word, you jerk him off until he lets out a whine that would put off any dog and his entire body tenses; his first shot of cum shoots out from his dick and up his chest, and then you grip his kicking cock at the base and slap the head over and over, watching as his cum splatters every which way.

Mary looks at you with wide, surprised eyes as he moans out his pleasure. His eyes dart from your face down to his dick and back up. It’s only once the line of his body goes lax do you take your hands from him. Mary shudders, and his arm comes up to cover his eyes as his chest heaves and his dick pulses while it softens.

You brush the sweaty locks from his forehead and lean down to press a kiss there.

“Hold on, buddy,” you coo before carefully extracting yourself from the couch.

On wobbling legs, you pull on your bottoms and shirt before sprinting to the bathroom to turn on the hot water spigot before sprinting to the kitchen where you hurry to get a bite of chocolate from his coffin and pour a glass of Pedialyte. You deposit the latter on the coffee table before alighting back to the bathroom. 

Now that the water is hot, you wet Mary’s washcloth and watch as the steam from it curls into the air.

Mary hasn’t really moved—merely grunting when you use the warm cloth to wipe him clean of cum and lube—though he does give a hearty twitch when you wipe his soft cock.

Once he’s mostly clean, you clamber onto the couch and manipulate his head into your lap.

“Hey, you need to drink some of this, ok?”

“No,” he grumbles petulantly.

You tap his arm lightly. “_Yes_. Now, please.”

When he removes his arm, his eyes meet yours with a grumpy stare, but he raises himself up enough that he can imbibe the liquid. He drinks it down in three gulps before handing it back to you, and you trade him the chocolate.

He pops the sweet into his mouth before turning to press his face into your abdomen and curling into you. You run your fingers through his stiff, sweaty hair.

“You’re a good boy, Mare.”

He whines, and you pull the afghan down to arrange over him and your lap. You continue to massage his scalp until you can tell by the evenness of his breathing that he’s asleep.

Comfortable, but trapped, you finish watching the rest of the movie with a warm, sleeping boy in your lap. When it ends, the next one comes on, but you don't move; your phone is just out of reach, and you really don’t want to disturb Mary, so you just tip your head back onto the couch to rest your eyes.

It’s his squirming that jolts you out of your doze.

“_Cold_,” he says.

You press the heels of your palms into your eyes.

“Mm…you want me to get your pjs, baby?”

Mary sits up, clasping the blanket tight around him. He stretches and yawns, his feet peeking out and his gnarly toes contracting as he does so.

“Nah. Gotta take a leak anyway.”

While he takes care of his situation, you yank your hoodie back on and retrieve your phone. When the knit is unceremoniously tossed over your head, you squawk and flail until you manage to pull it off. Mary’s back on the couch, cackling at you in the pjs he keeps in his drawer; he looks so soft and inviting that, instead of retaliating, you snuggle up into his side, pulling the afghan over the two of you. Mary’s too surprised at your action to do much more than raise up his arm and help arrange the ends. 

“Maybe we oughta just get into bed,” he says as he kisses your head.

You swat at him haphazardly, but there’s no real feeling behind it.

“I thought you wanted to watch this marathon?”

“Yeah, maybe,” he says as his one hand sneaks down and into your pants to rest on your ass.

You drift off again, letting Mary enjoy his gore until you’re jostled awake once more by him.

“You don’t spank me enough.”

“Hmm?” you hum as you twist to look up at him.

The toes of his one foot are curled over the edge of the coffee table, and he detaches them to point his big toe at the hairbrush.

“I got all excited.”

You rub your hand down his stomach.

“You didn’t do anything to warrant a punishment, Mare.”

“It’s not a punishment.”

You look up at him and wriggle an arm free so you can stroke his chin.

“No, it’s not.” You trace his jawline. “The rules are just the vehicle.”

He grabs your wrist so he can kiss your palm.

“But what happens if I don’t break the rules?”

The two of you stay like that for a few beats as the sounds of a chainsaw and screaming emanate from the TV. Your mind is whirring, though you’re not sure if Mary’s attention is back on the movie.

“What if we did more than the rules?”

Mary’s head tilts to look down at you.

“Whadaya mean?”

You adjust yourself until you can look at him comfortably.

“Like, we could still do the rules, but what if we also had like: Spank Day.”

His brow furrows.

“Spank…day?”

“Yeah. Like, once a month you come over and I spank the shit out of you.”

The resting hand on your ass tightens. He blinks at you.

“Yeah?”

You run a palm over his groin and find a semi waiting for you.

“Yeah,” you say, grinning. You rub the area around his half chub. “Block off a night every month, and I’ll cherry your ass.”

His hips twitch.

“Like tonight?”

You feel the blood rush in between your legs, but honestly, you’re exhausted. You sigh and run your palm down his thigh.

“Fuck, Mare…I’m—”

He kisses your head again.

“No, you’re right.”

His hand skims your cunt from behind before trailing down your thigh.

“How ‘bout I make you scream instead?”

You’re not going to say no to a free orgasm.

You spread your legs. “Mm, that sounds nice.”

Two of his fingers slip into your slit and begin to lightly rub up and down. You moan, tilting your head back, and Mary buries his nose in your neck.

“But before I go on the tri-state tour, yeah?”

You twitch your hips up into his touch and growl, 

“I’ll make it so you can’t sit the entire time.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special Thanks to [@asaintlysinnner](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/view/asaintlysinner) who suggested **Spank Day** when I lamented I didn't spank Mary enough due to wanting plot and variety XD

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Let Me Take You on a Sexcapade](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27520030) by [KassieProphet](https://archiveofourown.org/users/KassieProphet/pseuds/KassieProphet)


End file.
